And speckl'd vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Th' enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, And Mercy set between, Thron'd in Celestiall sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heav'n as at som festivall, Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both Himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychain'd 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 smouldring clouds out brake: The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull 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 Th' old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o're, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre-inwov'n tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 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 Flamins 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 twise-batter'd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, Heav'ns Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamus mourn. And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred, His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian Grove, or Green, Trampling the unshowr'd Grasse with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems dark The sable stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. He feels from Juda's Land The dredded Infants hand, The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside, Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe to shew His Godhead true, Can in His swadling bands controul the damned 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 th' infernall jail, Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes, Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moonlov'd maze. But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, Heav'ns youngest teemed Star, Hath fixt her polisht Car, Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: And all about the Courtly Stable, Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable. JEREMY TAYLOR THE PRAYER My soul doth pant towards Thee, My God, source of eternal life: Flesh fights with me; Oh, end the strife, |