Part 4

For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die, 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 Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says No; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both Himself and us to glorify: Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When at the worlds last sessión, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The old Dragon, under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway; And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving: Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathéd 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; 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 Lemurés moan with midnight plaint; 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 forgoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine And moonéd 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; Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.

He feels from Juda's land The dreaded infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.

So, when the sun in bed Curtain'd with cloudy red Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd 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: Heavens youngest-teeméd star, Hath fixed her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

J. MILTON.

63. SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,

1687.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair, disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place Sequacious of the lyre: But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: When to her Organ vocal breath was given An angel heard, and straight appear'd-- Mistaking Earth for Heaven!

_Grand Chorus_:

As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky.

J. DRYDEN.

64. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.

Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones.

Forget not: In Thy book record their groans Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian field, where still doth sway The triple tyrant, that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

J. MILTON.

65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND.

The forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgéd his active star:

And like the three-fork'd lightning first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide:

For 'tis all one to courage high The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose;

Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the Man is due

Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservéd and austere (As if he his highest plot To plant the bergamot)

Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old Into another mould.

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient Rights in vain-- But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak;

Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art,

Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case;

That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the arméd bands Did clap their bloody hands;

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;

Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow'd his comely head Down, as upon a bed.

--This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcéd power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line,

A Bleeding Head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic's hand-- How fit he is to sway That can so well obey!

He to the Commons' feet presents A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the Public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having kill'd, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.

--What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year!

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-colour'd mind, But, from this valour, sad Shrink underneath the plaid--

Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer.

But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

A. MARVELL.

66. LYCIDAS

_Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel._

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; Hence with denial vain and coy excuse: So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn: And as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill: Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; Temper'd to the oaten flute, Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:-- As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me! I fondly dream-- Had ye been there--for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shears And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies: But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds! That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beakéd promontory: They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotadés their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe: "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge!" Last came, and last did go The pilot of the Galilean Lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: --But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."

Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold, --Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: --And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing, in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay: At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

J. MILTON.

67. THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Mortality, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest royallest seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried "Though gods they were, as men they died!" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

F. BEAUMONT.

68. THE LAST CONQUEROR.

Victorious men of earth, no more Proclaim how wide your empires are; Though you bind-in every shore And your triumphs reach as far As night and day, Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey And mingle with forgotten ashes, when Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, Each able to undo mankind, Death's servile emissaries are; Nor to these alone confined, He hath at will More quaint and subtle ways to kill; A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

J. SHIRLEY.

69. DEATH THE LEVELLER.

The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

J. SHIRLEY.

70. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.

Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If deed of honour did thee ever please; Guard them, and him within protect from harms.