JOHN MILTON
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, Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'rc, 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-mwov'n tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated Earth, And on the holv 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 scat.
Peor, and Baalim,
Forsake their Temples dim,
With that twisc-batter'd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, Hcav'ns Queen and Mother both,
Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine,
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