ODE ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY 189 The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving : Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathèd spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; Edged with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; And moonèd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove, or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; rays Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, For Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 191 So, when the sun in bed Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave ; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemèd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attend ing: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. John Milton. ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC 'T WAS at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned ;) The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride: - None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair! Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire With flying fingers touched the lyre: The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, And while he sought her snowy breast; Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound! A present deity! they shout around; A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound! The monarch hears, And seems to shake the spheres. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 193 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, He shows his honest face : Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes ! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain: Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain ! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, |