The lonely mountains o'er,

And the resounding shore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale

Edged with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn

181

185

[mourn.

The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets

In consecrated earth,

And on the holy hearth,

190

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,

195

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;

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 unshow'r'd grass with lowings loud:

191. The Lars and Lemures; household gods and night spirits. Flamens; priests. There is a remarkable resemblance in this poem, one of Milton's earliest, to the later productions of his genius. It presents the same mixture of learning and fancy; of original genius, forgetting itseif amid the treasures of erudition. Most of the mythological names have been mentioned in the notes to the larger poems.

Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest,

216

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

221

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside,

Longer dare abide,

225

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

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So when the Sun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

230

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 Fayes

235

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: Heav'n'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-harnest angels sit in order serviceable.

IV.

THE PASSION.

EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring,
And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My Muse with angels did invite to sing;
But headlong Joy is ever on the wing,

944. Bright-harnest; arnese, from which the epithet is derived, is an Italian word for any kind of ornament or dress. Harness, in English, is commonly used for armour. See Kings xx. 11.

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,

10

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, [wight!
Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human
He sov'reign Priest stooping his regal head,
That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies;

O what a mask was there, what a disguise!

15

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

These latest 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:

25

30

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 tow'rs of Salem stood,
Once glorious tow'rs, now sunk in guiltless blood;
There doth my soul in holy vision sit

In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.

35

41

26. Cremona was the birth-place of the poet Vida, who wrote s poem on the sufferings and history of Christ.

37. The prophet; Ezekiel. See Ezekiel, chap. i.

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, 45 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 beguiled)

50

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

55

[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.\

V.

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,

So little is thy gain.

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

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine

About the supreme throne

Of Him, to' whose happy-making sight alone

When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthy grossness quit,

Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,
O Time.

20

VI.

UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.

YE flaming Pow'rs, 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

5

Seas wept from our deep sorrow:

He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere

10

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 throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory,* even to nakedness;

15

20

And that great covenant 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 25 This day, but O ere long

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

Phillp. ii. 7. In our translation, He made himself of no reputation; but Milton's expression, Emptied his glory, fa nearer the original.