The Golden Treasury. Unknown

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 Baalim

           Forsake their temples dim,

           With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine

           And moonéd Ashtaroth

           Heaven's queen and mother both,

           Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;

           The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,

           In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

           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,

           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;

           Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;

           In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark

           The sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.

           He feels from Juda's land

           The dreaded infant's hand;

           The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

           Nor all the gods beside

           Longer dare abide,

           Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

           Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,

           Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.

           So, when the sun in bed

           Curtain'd with cloudy red

           Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

           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:

           Heavens youngest-teeméd star,

           Hath fixed her polish'd car,

           Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:

           And all about the courtly stable

           Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

J. MILTON.

      63. SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,

1687

           From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony

             This universal frame began:

            When nature underneath a heap

             Of jarring atoms lay

            And could not heave her head,

           The tuneful voice was heard from high

             Arise, ye more than dead!

           Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry

           In order to their stations leap,

             And Music's power obey.

           From harmony, from heavenly harmony

             This universal frame began:

             From harmony to harmony

           Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

           The diapason closing full in Man.

           What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

             When Jubal struck the chorded shell

            His listening brethren stood around,

            And, wondering, on their faces fell

            To worship that celestial sound.

           Less than a God they thought there could not dwell

             Within the hollow of that shell,

             That spoke so sweetly and so well.

           What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

            The trumpet's loud clangor

             Excites us to arms,

            With shrill notes of anger,

             And mortal alarms.

            The double double double beat

             Of the thundering drum

             Cries "Hark! the foes come;

           Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"

            The soft complaining flute

            In dying notes discovers

            The woes of hopeless lovers,

           Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

            Sharp violins proclaim

           Their jealous pangs and desperation,

           Fury, frantic indignation,

           Depth of pains, and height of passion

            For the fair, disdainful dame.

           But oh! what art can teach,

           What human voice can reach

            The sacred organ's praise?

           Notes inspiring holy love,

           Notes that wing their heavenly ways

            To mend the choirs above.

           Orpheus could lead the savage race,

           And trees uprooted left their place

            Sequacious of the lyre:

           But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:

           When to her Organ vocal breath was given

           An angel heard, and straight appear'd—

            Mistaking Earth for Heaven!

              Grand Chorus: