The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathèd 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 moonèd 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 Thamuz 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-stolèd 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 damnèd 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 Moon-lov’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 teemèd 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. _308._ _On Time_