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Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : , Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swadling bands control the damned crew.
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
(maze. But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest;
Time is, our' tedious song should here have ending: Heav'n's youngest teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.
IV. The Passion.
EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light, Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.
11. For now to sorrow must I tune my song, And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, 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!
He, sovran Priest, stooping his regal head,
Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's
[sides These latest scenes confine my roving verse; To this horizon is my Phæbus bound: His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce, And former sufferings, other where are found; Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound ;
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings
That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe;
The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish
There doth my soul in holy vision sit
For sure so well instructed are my tears,
Or should I, thence hurried on viewless wing,
Might think th' infection of my sorrows loud Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. [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 unfinished.] V. On Time. Fry, 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, And merely mortal dross ; 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 sincerely good And perfecely divine, With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine About the supremne throne Of him, to' whose happy-making sight alone When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime, Then all this earthy grossness quit, Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever sit, [Time. Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O
VI. Upon the Circumcision.
Ye flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright,
So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along
His infancy to scise !
VII. At a solemn Music.
Buest pair of Syrens, pledges of Heav'n's joy, Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,