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19. The Oracles are dum, No voice or hideous humm
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine,
With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o’re,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
The parting Genius is with sighing sent,
In consecrated Earth,
190 The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight In Urns, and Altars round,
[plaint, A drear and dying found
Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
Peor, and Baalim,
With that twice batter'd god of Palestine,
Now fits not girt with Tapers holy shine,
23: And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred,
His burning Idol all of blackest hue;
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
24. Nor is Ofris seen In Memphian Grove, or Green,
Trampling the unshowr'd Grass with lowings Nor can he be at rest
[loud : Within his facred chest,
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems dark The fable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.
25 He feels from Jude's Land The dredded Infants hand, The rayes
of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the Gods beside, Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : Our Babe to thew his Godhead true, [crew. Can in his swadling bands controul the damned
26. So when the Sun in bed, Curtain’d with cloudy red,
Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave,
Each fetter'd Ghost Nips to his several grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes,
[maze. Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov'd
27. But see the Virgin blest, Hath laid her Babe to rest.
[ing, Time is our tedious Song should here have endHeav'ns youngest teemed Star,
240 Hath fixt her polisht Car,
[ing: Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attendAnd all about the Courtly Stable, Bright-harnest Angels fit in order serviceable.
RE-WHILE of Musick, and Ethereal mirth,
[ring, Wherewith the stage of Ayr and Earth did And joyous news of heav'nly Infants birth,
My muse with Angels did divide to sing;
In Wintry solstice like the shortn’d light
For now to sorrow must I tune my song,
Most perfect Heroe, try'd in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight.
3: He sov'ran Priest stooping his regal head That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes, Foor fleshly Tabernacle entered, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies; O what a mask was there, what a disguise !
Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his Brethrens
These latest scenes confine my roving vers,
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings
my wo; My sorrows are too dark for day to know :
The leaves should all be black wheron I write, And letters where my tears have washt a wannish white.
There doth my soul in holy vision sit
eye hath found that fad Sepulchral rock That was the Casket of Heav'ns richest store, And here though grief my
up Yet on the softned Quarry would I score My plaining vers as lively as before ;
For sure so well instructed are my tears,