JOHN MILTON

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is,

But now begins ; for from this happy day TVold Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound,

Not half so far casts his usurped sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.

The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine,

With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspired 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.

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