In The Yule-Log Glow--Book 3 | Page 3

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 base of Heaven's deep organ blow,?And, with your ninefold harmony,?Make up full concert 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 Hell itself will pass away,?And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, Truth and Justice then?Will down return to men,?Orb'd 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 lies yet in smiling infancy,?That on the bitter cross?Must redeem our loss,?So both himself and us to glorify:?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 smouldering clouds outbreak:?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 straighter 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 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 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 Ba?lim?Forsake their temples dim,?With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;?And mooned 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-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
He feels from Judah'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 show his Godhead true,?Can in his swaddling-bands control 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 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:?Heaven's youngest teemed star?Hath fix'd her polished car,?Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp attending:?And all about the courtly stable?Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.
_John Milton._
THE FIRST ROMAN CHRISTMAS.
It was the calm and silent night!?Seven hundred years and fifty-three?Had Rome been growing up to might,?And now was queen of land and sea.?No sound was heard of clashing wars,?Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;?Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars?Held undisturbed their ancient reign,?In the solemn midnight?Centuries ago.
'Twas in the calm and silent night!?The senator of haughty Rome?Impatient urged his chariot's flight,?From lonely revel rolling home.?Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell?His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;?What recked the Roman what befell?A paltry province far away?In the solemn midnight?Centuries ago?
Within that province far away?Went plodding home a weary boor;?A streak of light before him lay,?Fallen through a half-shut stable-door,?Across his path. He passed; for naught?Told what was going on within.?How keen the stars! his only thought;?The air how calm, and cold, and thin!?In the solemn midnight?Centuries ago.
O strange indifference! Low and high?Drowsed over common joys and cares;?The earth was still, but knew not why;?The world was listening unawares.?How calm a moment may precede?One that shall thrill the world forever!?To that still moment none would heed,?Man's doom was linked,