LITMIR.BIZ

           The shepherds on the lawn

           Or ere the point of dawn

           Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;

           Full little thought they then

           That the mighty Pan

           Was kindly come to live with them below;

           Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep

           Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

           When such music sweet

           Their hearts and ears did greet

           As never was by mortal finger strook—

           Divinely-warbled voice

           Answering the stringéd noise,

           As all their souls in blissful rapture took:

           The air, such pleasure loth to lose,

           With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

           Nature that heard such sound

           Beneath the hollow round

           Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,

           Now was almost won

           To think her part was done,

           And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;

           She knew such harmony alone

           Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

           At last surrounds their sight

           A globe of circular light

           That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;

           The helméd Cherubim

           And sworded Seraphim,

           Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,

           Harping in loud and solemn quire

           With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

           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 bass 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 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 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 outbrake:

           The aged Earth agast

           With terrour of that blast

           Shall from the surface to the centre shake,

           When at the worlds last sessión,

           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 usurpéd sway;

           And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,

           Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.

           The oracles are dumb;

           No voice or hideous hum

           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;

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