Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty para mour. Only with speeches fair For all the morning light, Or Lucifer had often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And, though the shady gloom To hide her guilty front with innocent Had given day her room, snow; And on her naked shame, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, The saintly veil of maiden-white to As his inferior flame throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes ities. But he, her fears to cease, Down through the turning sphere, With turtle wing the amorous clouds And, waving wide her myrtle wand, and land. No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Was kindly come to live with them be low; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, The idle spear and shield were high up- Divinely warbled voice As never was by mortal fingers strook, hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the arméd And kings sat still with awful eye, But peaceful was the night, His reign of peace upon the earth began: Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave. The stars, with deep amaze, ence; And will not take their flight, Answering the stringéd noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took : The air, such pleasure loath to lose, Nature, that heard such sound, Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region Now was almost won, To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last She knew such harmony alone union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed; The helméd cherubim, hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let the bass of Heaven's deeporgan blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, For, if such holy song Time will run back, and fetch the age And speckled Vanity And leprous Sin will melt from earthly And Hell itself will pass away, Yea, Truth and Justice then Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories Mercy will sit between, With radiant feet the tissued clouds 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, 37 So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang The aged earth aghast, Shall from the surface to the centre When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss, But now begins; for, from this happy The old dragon, underground, Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb; Runs through the archéd roof in words 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, A voice of weeping heard and loud 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 mourn with mid night 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-battered God of Palestine; And moonéd Ashtaroth, The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn; And sullen Moloch, fled, His burning idol all of blackest hue: In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered 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 Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teeméd star Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. SONNETS. ON ARRIVING AT THE AGE OF TWENTY THREE. In dismal dance about the furnace blue: How soon hath Time, the subtle thief The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, of youth, My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth. Trampling the unshowered grass with Perhaps my semblance might deceive the lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. He feels from Judah's land The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; Nor all the gods beside Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; Our babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew. So, when the sun in bed, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale THOMAS ELWOOD. SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE. 39 My true account, lest he returning | Christ leads me through no darker rooms chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." Than he went through before; He that into God's kingdom comes Must enter by his door. Come, Lord, when grace has made me meet Thy blessed face to see; Then shall I end my sad complaints, And join with the triumphant saints My knowledge of that life is small, But 't is enough that Christ knows all, |