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Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshower'd grafs with lowings loud;
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark The fable-stoled sorcerers bear his worthịpt ark. 220

He feels from Juda's land
The dreaded Infant’s hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Nor all the Gods beside
Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in fnaky twine :
Our babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swadling-bands controll the damned crew.

XXVI. So when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red,

230 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes

235 Fly after the night-fteeds, leaving their moon-lov'd



But see the Virgin bleft
Hath laid her Babe to rest,

Time is our tedious song should here have ending :
Heaven's youngest teemed star

240 Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harnest Angels fit in order serviceable.

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REWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,

Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring,
And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My Muse with Angels did divide to lîng;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry folstice like the shorten'd light
Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.

now to forrow must I tune my song,

my harp to notes of saddest woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,
Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than fo,
Which he for us did freely undergo:

Most perfect Hero, try'd in heaviest plight
Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight!


And fet



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He sovran Priest stooping his regal head,

15 That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes, Poor fleshly tabernacle entered, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies; O what a mak was there, what a disguise !

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's fide.

*These latest scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound;
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings other-where are found; 25
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound;

Me softer airs befit, and softer strings
Of lute, or viol ftill, more apt for mournful things.

Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief,
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,

And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,
That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe;
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have walh'd a wannish white.

35 VI. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, "That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood, My spirit fome transporting Cherub feels,


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To bear me where the towers of Salem stood,
Once glorious tow'rs, now sunk in guiltless blood; 40
There doth

my soul in holy vision fit
In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fite


hath found that fad sepulchral rock
That was the caket of Heav'n's richest store,
And here though grief my feeble hands up-lock, 45
Yet on the soften’d quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before ;

For fure so well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.

Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing, 50
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbofom all their echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguild)

Might think th' infection of my forrows loud 55
got a race of mourners on some pregnant


This subject the Author finding to be above the years

he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinish'd.


LY. envious Time, till thou run out thy race,

Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain, 5
And merely mortal drofs;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast intomb’d,
And last of all thy greedy self consum’d,

Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is fincerely good
And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of him, t'whose happy-making fight alone
When once our heav'nly-guided foul shall climb,
Then all this earthy grofsnefs quit,
Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever fit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O



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