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Harping in loud and solemn quire,
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-

born heir.

Such music as 't is said
Before was never made,

But when of old the sons of morning sung,
While the Creator great
His constellations set,
And the well-balanced world on hinges

hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy chan

nel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres,
Once bless our human ears,
If
ye
have
power

to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time;

And let the bass of heaven's deep organ

blow;

And, with your ninefold harmony,
Make up full concert to the angelic sym-

phony.

For, if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of
gold;

And speckled Vanity
Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly

mould ; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peer

ing day.

Yea, Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories

wearing,
Mercy will sit between,
Throned in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down

steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace

hall.

But wisest Fate says no,
This must not yet be so;

The babe yet lies in smiling infancy,
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss,

So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder

through the deep,

With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang,
While the red fire and smouldering clouds

outbrake;
The aged earth aghast,
With terror of that blast,

Shall from the surface to the center shake; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall

spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss,
Full and perfect is,

But now begins; for, from this happy day,
The old dragon, under ground,
In straiter limits bound,

Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swings the scaly horror of his folded tail.

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 breathèd spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud la-

ment;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled

thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,
The Lars and Lemures mourn with mid-

night 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 foregoes his

wonted seat.

Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim
With that twice-battered God of Pales-

tine;
And moonèd Ashtaroth,
Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ;
The Libyac 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 unshowered 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 timbreled anthems dark The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his wor

shiped ark.

He feels from Judah's land
The dreaded infant's hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky
eyne;

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