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Apollo from his fhrine

Can no more divine,

176

With hollow fhriek the fleep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed fpell

Inspires the pale-ey'd prieft from the prophetic cell. XX.

The lonely mountains o'er,

And the refounding fhore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale

Edg'd with poplar pale,

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(mourn.

The parting Genius is with fighing sent; With flow'r-inwoven treffes torn

The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets

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A drear and dying found

Affrights the Flamens at their fervice quaint;

And the chill marble feems to fweat,

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While each peculiar Pow'r forgoes his wonted feat.

Peor and Baälim

XXII.

Forfake their temples dim,

With that twice batter'd God of Palestine;

And

And mooned Afhtaroth,

Heav'n's queen and mother both,

Now fits not girt with tapers holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,

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(mourn

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz

XXIII.

And fullen Moloch fled,

Hath left in fhadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals ring

They call the grisly king,

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In difmal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish Gods of Nile as fast,

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Ifis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.

Nor is Ofiris seen

XXIV.

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling theunshowr'd grass with lowings loud:

Nor can he be at reft

Within his facred cheft,

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Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;

In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark

The fable-ftoled forcerers bear his worshipt ark. XXV.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

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Nor

Nor all the Gods befide,

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in fnaky twine: Our babe to fhow his Godhead true,

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Can in his swadling bands controll the damned crew.

XXVI.

So when the fun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to th' infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghoft flips to his feveral grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes.

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Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd

XXVII.

But see the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to reft,

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(maze.

Time is our tedious fong should here have ending: Heav'n's youngest teemed ftar

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

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Her fleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnest Angels fit in order serviceable.

The

E

IV.

The PASSION.

I.

REWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,

Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring, And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth, My Muse with Angels did divide to fing; But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

5

In wintry folftice like the shorten'd light Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.

II.

For now to forrow must I tune my fong,

And fet my harp to notes of saddest woe,

10

Which on our dearest Lord did feife ere long, Dangers, and fnares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo:

Moft perfect Hero, try'd in heaviest plight

Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight! III.

He sovran priest stooping his regal head,

That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His ftarry front low-rooft beneath the skies;
O what a mask was there, what a disguise!

15

Yet more; the ftroke of death he muft abide, 20 Then lies him meekly down faft by his brethren's fide.

These

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IV.

Thefe latest scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phœbus bound;

His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former fufferings other where are found; 25
Loud o'er the reft Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and softer ftrings

⚫ Of lute, or viol ftill, more apt for mournful things.

v.

30

Befriend me Night, best patroness of grief,
Over the póle thy thickest mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,
That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe;
My forrows are too dark for day to know:

VI.

The leaves fhould all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have wash'da wannish (white. See, fee the chariot, and those rufhing wheels, 36 That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood, My spirit some transporting Cherub feels, To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem stood, Once glorious tow'rs, now funk in guiltless blood; There doth my foul in holy vision fit In pensive trance, and anguish, and exftatic fit.

VII.

4I

Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock
That was the casket of Heav'n's richest store,
And here though grief my feeble hands up lock, 45

Yet

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