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have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time;
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.
For, if such holy song
Time will run back and fetch the age of gold;
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould ; And hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day
Yea, truth and justice then
Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
steering; And heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
But wisest Fate says No,
The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,
So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep,
With such a horrid clang
Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his
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. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'er,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
The parting genius is with sighing sent;
In consecrated earth,
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, [seat. While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted
Peor and Baälim
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ;
And sullen Moloch, fled,
His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
Nor is Osiris seen
Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbrell’d anthems dark, The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.
He feels from Juda's land
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned
So, when the sun in bed,
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted fays
But see, the Virgin blest
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending.
[ing: Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp, attendAnd all about the courtly stable Bright harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.
EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
In wintry solstice, like the shorten'd light,
For now to sorrow mụst I tune my song,
Most perfect hero, tried in heaviest plight