XVIII.
And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is,
But now begins; for from this happy day,
Th' old Dragon[45] under ground,
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway;
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swindges[46] the scaly horrour of his foulded tail.
XIX.
The oracles are dumm;[47]
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[48] leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.
XX.
The lonely mountains o'er
And the resounding shore
A voice of weeping[49] heard and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale
Edged with poplar pale
The parting[50] Genius is with sighing sent;
With floure-inwov'n tresses torn
The nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
XXI.
In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth[51]
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint
In urns and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights the Flamins[52] at their service quaint
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power forgoes[53] his wonted seat.