Nor is Ofiris feen

XXIV.

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unfhower'd grafs with lowings loud;

Nor can he be at reft

Within his facred cheft,

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his fhroud; In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark

The fable-ftoled forcerers bear his worshipt ark. 220 . XXV.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the Gods befide

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in fnaky twine: Our babe, to fhow his Godhead true,

225

Can in his fwadling-bands controll the damned crew.

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghoft flips to his feveral grave,

And the yellow-fkirted Fayes

235

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

maze.

XXVII. But

But fee the Virgin bleft

XXVII.

Hath laid her Babe to rest,

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

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

240

Her fleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable

Bright harnest Angels fit in order ferviceable.

E

IV.

THE PASSION.

I.

REWHILE of mufic, and ethereal mirth, Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring, And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,

My Mufe with Angels did divide to sing;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

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

II.

For now to forrow muft I tune my fong,

And fet my harp to notes of faddeft woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did feize ere long,
Dangers, and fnares, and wrongs, and worse than so,
Which he for us did freely undergo:

Moft perfect Hero, try'd in heaviest plight

5

10

Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

III. He

III.

He sovran Prieft ftooping his regal head,
That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His ftarry front low-rooft beneath the skies;
O what a mask was there, what a disguife!

15

20

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

IV.

Thefe latest scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phœbus bound;
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former fufferings other-where are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and fofter ftrings

Of lute, or viol ftill, more apt for mournful things.

V.

Befriend me, Night, beft patronefs of grief,
Over the pole thy thickeft mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,
That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe;
My forrows are too dark for day to know:

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30

I The leaves fhould all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have wash'd a wannish

white.

VI.

See, fee the chariot, and those rushing wheels, * That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood, My spirit fome tranfporting Cherub feels,

35

• To

To bear me where the towers of Salem stood,

Once glorious tow'rs, now funk in guiltless blood; 40 There doth my foul in holy vision fit

In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit,

VII.

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

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

VIII.

Or fhould I thence hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would foon unbofom all their echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

50

Might think th' infection of my forrows loud Had got a race of mourners on fome pregnant cloud.

55

This fubject 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.

V. ON

F

V.

ON TIM E.

LY. envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden- ftepping 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 falfe and vain, And merely mortal drofs;

So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou haft intomb'd,
And last of all thy greedy felf confum'd,

Then long Eternity fhall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss;

And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is fincerely good

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10

And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine

About the fupreme throne

Of him, t' whofe happy-making fight alone

When once our heav'nly-guided foul fhall climb,
Then all this earthy groffnefs quit,

Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever fit,

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Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O

Time.

VI. UPON