XXIII.

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,

205

In dismal dance about he furnace blue:

210

The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

XXIV.

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest,

216

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.

XXV.

He feels from Judah's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne;

Nor all the gods beside,

Longer dare abide,

Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

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225

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

XXVI.

So when the sun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to th' infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;

And the yellow-skirted fays

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235

Fly after the night steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd

maze.

XXVII.

But see, the Virgin-bless'd

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

240

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

THE PASSION.*

I.

EREWHILE of music, and etherial 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.

II.

For now to sorrow must I tune my song,
And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,

10

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!

II.

He, sovereign Priest, stooping his regal head,
That droop'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!

15

*This poem appears to have been composed soon after the Ode on the Nativity.

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, 20 Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side.

IV.

=These latest scenes confine my roving verse;
To this horizon is my Phœbus 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.

V.

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

25

30

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

35

white.

VI.

41

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,

1> In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.

VII.

Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock
That was the casket of Heaven'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.

VIII.

Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,

45

50

The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbosom all their echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

55

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

This subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished.

ON TIME.*

FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the lazy, leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,

So little is thy gain!

And last of all thy greedy self consum❜d,

Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss;

And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is sincerely good

5

10

And perfectly divine,

15

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,
Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever sit,

20

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O
Time!

*In these poems where no date is prefixed, and no cir cumstances direct us to ascertain the time when they were composed, we follow the order of Milton's own edi tions. And before this copy of verses, it appears from the manuscript, that the poet had written, To be set on a clock-case.

PON 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 Heaven'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 covenant which we still transgress
Entirely satisfied;

And the full wrath beside

Of vengeful justice bore for our excess;

5

10

15

20

And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, 25

This day; but O, ere long,

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

BLESS'D pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born, harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce;
And to our high rais'd phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne,
To him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee,

5