XVIII. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Not half so far casts his usurped sway, XIX. The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. XX. The lonely mountains o'er, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. XXI. 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 forgoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baälim XXII. Forsake their temples dim, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. XXIII. And sullen Moloch, fled, His burning idol all of blackest hue; They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. XXIV. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, loud; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbreled anthems dark, The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark. XXV. He feels, from Juda's land, The of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn, rays Nor all the gods beside Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine. Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling-bands control the damned crew. XXVI. So when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave, Fly after the Night steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. XXVII. 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 fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid-lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. HENCE, loathed Melancholy! Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy. Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free, As he met her once a-maying, There, on beds of violets blue, Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee While the cock, with lively din, |