JOHN MILTON
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, ISLS and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.
Nor is Obiris 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 TimbrcPd Anthems dark The sable-stoled 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 damned crew,
So when the Sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red,
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