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 ;

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 cyn;

Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Nor 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,

t

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: Heaven'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.

MILTON.

ON TIME.

Written at Cambridge about 1630.

LY, 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,

So little is thy gain!

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

And, last of all, thy greedy self consumed,

Then long eternity shall greet our bliss,

With an individual kiss;

And joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When everything that is sincerely good

And perfectly divine,

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,

Attired with stars we shall for ever sit,

Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O time!

MILTON.

39

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

Written at Cambridge about 1630.

B

LEST pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy,
Sphere-born, harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce ;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure content,

Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee ;
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly :

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,

May rightly answer that melodious noise,