The Golden Treasury. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving:

       Apollo from his shrine

       Can no more divine,

       With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:

       No nightly trance or breathéd 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 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 Lemurés 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 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.