Page:Comus and other poems - Milton (1906).djvu/76

 And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is,
 * But now begins; for from this happy day

Th'old 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, 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. Rh