In consecrated earth,

And on the holy hearth,

The Lars and Lemures 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 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 Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thamuz

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,

Y

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 dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; 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,

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 fayes,

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon

lov'd maze.

But see the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is our tedious song should here have ending;

Heav'n's youngest teemed star

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:

And all about the courtly stable,

Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

THE PASSION.

[A FRAGMENT.]

EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring,
And joyous news of heavenly Infant's birth,
My muse with angels did divide to sing;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

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

For now to sorrow must I tune my song,

And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,
Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse
than so,

Which he for us did freely undergo:

Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight.

He, sov'reign Priest, stooping his regal head,
That dropp'd with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His starry front low-roof'd 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 brethren's side.

These latter scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound;
His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings, other where are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound;

Me softer airs befit, and softer strings

Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.

Befriend me night, best patroness of grief;
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

That heav'n 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,
That whirl'd the prophet up at Chebar flood;
My spirit some transporting cherub feels,
To bear me where the towers of Salem stood,
Once glorious towers, now sunk in guiltless blood;
There doth my soul in holy vision sit,

In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.

Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock
That was the casket of heav'n's richest store,
And here though grief my feeble hands up lock,
Yet on the soften'd quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before;

For sure so well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.

Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbosom all their echoes mild;
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

Might think the infection of my sorrows loud, Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.

YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright,
That erst with music, and triumphant song,
First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear,
So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along
Through the soft silence of the list'ning night,
Now mourn; and if sad share with us to bear
Your fiery essence can distil no tear,
Burn in your sighs, and borrow

Seas wept from our deep sorrow;

He who with all heav'n's heraldry whilere
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease;
Alas, how soon our sin

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,
High thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness;

And that great cov'nant which we still transgress
Entirely satisfied;

And the full wrath beside

Of vengeful justice bore for our excess ;

And seals obedience first, with wounding smart,

This day, but, O! ere long,

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.