Volume I Part 51 (2/2)

Such music (as 'tis 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 channel 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 ba.s.s of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

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 h.e.l.l itself will pa.s.s away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering 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 centre 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 usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges 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 breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding sh.o.r.e 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 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 foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered G.o.d of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy s.h.i.+ne; 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 G.o.ds of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove, or green, Trampling the unshowered gra.s.s with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Naught but profoundest h.e.l.l can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable stoled sorcerers bear his wors.h.i.+ped ark.

He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen; Nor all the G.o.ds beside Longer dare abide Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his G.o.dhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the d.a.m.ned 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 teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.

John Milton [1608-1674]

FAIRYLAND

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