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The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale
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 plant ; In urns, and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim,
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ;
And mooned 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;
In vain, with cymbals' ring,
They call the grisly king,
In dismal dance about the furnace blue:
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green,
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Nought but profcundest hell can be his shroud ; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
The sable-stolod sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.
He feels from Juda's land
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky cyn; Nor all the gods beside,
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.
So, when the sun in bed,
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see, the Virgin blest
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending
Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp, attending;
EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
For now to sorrow must I tune my song,
Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight
Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight!
He, sovereign priest, stooping his regal head,
His starry front low-roof'd beneath the skies:
Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide,
These latest scenes confine my roving verse,
Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.
Befriend me, night, best patroness of grief,
That heaven and earth are colour'd with my woe;
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:
The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white.
See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit
Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock
For sure so well instructed are my tears,
Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
Might think the infection of my sorrows loud
This subject the author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, let it unfinished
FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When everything that is sincerely good,
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of him, to whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O Time!
UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.
YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright,
Seas wept from our deep sorrow:
He, who with all heaven's heraldry whilere
Sore doth begin
His infancy to seize !
O more exceeding love, or law more just?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love
For we, by rightful doom remediless,
Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
And the full wrath beside
Of vengeful justice bore for our excess,
Huge pangs and strong
Will pierce more near his heart.
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
BLEST pair of syrens, pledges of heaven's joy,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee,
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
Oh, may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with heaven, till God, ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light!
AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER.
THIS rich marble doth inter
The honour'd wife of Winchester,
A viscount's daughter, an earl's heir,