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النشر الإلكتروني

Who framing, on the fourth of days,

The fiery chariot of the sun, Appoint'st the moon her changing rays,

And orbs in which the planets run;

That thou might'st by a certain bound

'Twixt night and day division make, And that some sure sign might be found

To show when months beginning take;

Men's hearts with lightsome splendour bless,

Wipe from their minds polluting spots, Dissolve the bond of guiltiness,

Throw down the heaps of sinful blots.

Dear Father, grant what we entreat,

And only Son, who like power hast, Together with the Paraclete,

Reigning whilst times and ages last.

Thursday.
O God, whose forces far extend,

Who creatures which from watery spring Back to the flood dost partly send,

And up to th' air dost partly bring;

Some in the waters deeply div’d,

Some playing in the heav'ns above, That natures from one stock deriv'd

May thus to several dwellings move.

Upon thy servants grace bestow,

Whose souls thy bloody waters clear, That they no sinful falls may know,

Nor heavy grief of death may bear;

That sin no soul oppress'd may thrall,

That none be lifted high with pride, That minds cast downwards do not fall,

Nor raised up may backward slide.

Dear Father, grant what we entreat.

And only Son, who like power hast, Together with the Paraclete,

Reigning whilst times and ages last.

Friday. God, from whose work mankind did spring,

Who all in rule dost only keep, Bidding the dry land forth to bring

All kind of beasts which on it creep;

Who hast made subject to man's hand

Great bodies of each mighty thing, That, taking life from thy command,

They might in order serve their king;

From us thy servants, Lord, expel

Those errors which uncleanness breeds, Which either in our manners dwell,

Or mix themselves among our deeds.

Give the rewards of joyful life;

The plenteous gifts of grace increase;
Dissolve the cruel bonds of strife;
Knit fast the happy league of peace.
Dear Father, grant what we entreat,

And only Son, who like power hast,
Together with the Paraclete,

Reigning whilst times and ages last.

Saturday.
O Trinity! O blessed light !

O Unity, most principal !
The fiery sun now leaves our sight;

Cause in our hearts thy beams to fall.

Let us with songs of praise divine,

At morn and evening thee implore;
And let our glory, bow'd to thine,
Thee glorify for evermore.
To God the Father glory great,

And glory to his only Son,
And to the holy Paraclete,
Both now, and still while ages run.

Drummond.

SPRING.

So forth issu'd the seasons of the year;
First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers
That freshly budded, and new blossoms did bear,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowers,

That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did bear,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stores)

A gilt engraven morion he did wear,
That as some did him love, so others did him fear.

Spenser.

SUMMER.

Then came the jolly Summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock colour'd green;
That was unlined all, to be more light,
And on his head a garland, well beseene,
He wore, from which, as he had chaffed been,
The sweat did drop, and in his hand he bore
A bow and shafts, as he in forest green

Had hunted late the libbard or the boar,
And now would bathe his limbs, with labour heated sore.

Spenser.

AUTUMN.

Then came the Autumn, all in yellow clad,
As though he joyéd in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glau
That he had banish'd hunger, which to fore
Had by the belly oft him pinchéd sore;
Upon his head a wreath, that was enrolld
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore,

And in his hand a sickle he did hold,
To reap the ripen'd fruit, the which the earth had yold.

Spenser.

WINTER.

Lastly came Winter, clothéd all in fricze,
Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;
Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,
And the dull drops that from his purple bill,
As from a limbeck, did adown distil;
In his right hand a tippéd staff he held,
With which his feeble steps he stayéd still,

For he was faint with cold, and weak with elu, That scarce his looséd limbs he able was to weld.

Spenser.

HYMN TO THE MORNING,

Written in Summer.
Hail goddess of the silver star,
Whose trembling orb gives signal to the day;
0! queen of light, whose virgin ray

The sun salutes in his celestial car;
Whose active heats melt every cloud
That would thy dawn of glory shroud,
And stain the lustre of thy laughing eye,

While beneath thy azure sky-
Dimple-cheek’d-health with rosy features glows,

Through lowing pastures in she goes, Wearing the milkmaid's ruddy grace, Ease in her tripping step, and pleasure in her face. Forerunner of the day's bright reign,

And giver of unspeakable delight!

How nature triumphs at thy sight, And looks thanksgiving through her large domain:

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