The lonely mountains o'er, 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, 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; 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 worshiped ark. He feels from Judah's land The dreaded infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; Nor all the gods beside Not 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, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered 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-teemèd 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 serv iceable. John Milton A MOTHER IN EGYPT About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: and all the first-born in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first-born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the first-born of the maid-servant that is behind the mill. Is the noise of grief in the palace over the river For this silent one at my side? There came a hush in the night, and he rose with his hands a-quiver Like lotus petals adrift on the swing of the tide. O small cold hands, the day groweth old for sleeping! O small still feet, rise up, for the hour is late! Rise up, my son, for I hear them mourning and weeping In the temple down by the gate! Hushed is the face that was wont to brighten with laughter When I sang at the mill; And silence unbroken shall greet the sorrowful dawns hereafter, The house shall be still. Voice after voice takes up the burden of wailing Do you not heed, do you not hear?— in the high priest's house by the wall. But mine is the grief, and their sorrow is all unvailing. Will he awake at their call? Something I saw of the broad dim wings half folding The passionless brow. Something I saw of the sword that the shadowy hands were holding, What matters it now? I held you close, dear face, as I knelt and harkened To the wind that cried last night like a soul in sin, When the broad bright stars dropped down and the soft sky darkened And the presence moved therein. I have heard men speak in the market-place of the city, Low-voiced, in a breath, Of a God who is stronger than ours, and who knows not changing nor pity, Whose anger is death. Nothing I know of the lords of the outland races, |