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When such music sweet,
As never was by mortal finger strook,
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
Nature that heard such sound,
Of Cynthia's seat, the aery region thrilling,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
At last surrounds their sight
That with long beams the shame-fac'd night array’d,
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire With unexpressive notes to heav'n's new-born Heir.
Such music (as 'tis said)
But when of old the sons of morning sung,
And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung,
Ring ont, ye crystal spheres,
(If ye have power to touch our senses so)
And let the bass of heav'n's deep organ blow,
full concert to th' angelic symphony.
For if such holy song
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,
And leprous Sin will melt with earthly mould,
Yea Truth and Justice then
Orb’d in a rainbow; and like glories wearing
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering,
open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
But wisest Fate says no,
'The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy,
So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, The wakeful trump of Doom must thunder through the
With such a horrid clang
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake;
And then at last our bliss
But now begins; for from this happy day,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway,
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
In consecrated earth
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint:
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar pow'r foregoes his wonted scat.
Peor and Baälin
With that twice batter'd god of Palestine ;
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
And sollen Moloch fled,
His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In dismal dance about the furnace bile;
Nor is Osiris' seen
Trampling the unshow'r'd grass with lowings loud:
Nought but profonndest Hell can he his shroud;
He feels from Juda's land
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky ey;
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine :
So when the Sun in bed,
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave,
But see the Virgin blest,
Time is our tedious song should here have ending :
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnest angels sit in order serviceable.