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النشر الإلكتروني

Nor all the Gods befide,

Longer dare abide,

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


Can in his swadling bands controll the damned crew.


So when the fun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking fhadows pale

Troop to th' infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghoft flips to his feveral grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes


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


But fee the Virgin bleft

Hath laid her Babe to rest,



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

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,


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

Bright-harnest Angels fit in order serviceable.






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 Muse with Angels did divide to fing; But headlong joy is ever on the wing,


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


For now to forrow muft I tune my fong,

And fet my harp to notes of faddest woe,


Which on our dearest Lord did feife ere long, Dangers, and fnares, 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 humanwight! III.

He sovran priest stooping his regal head,

That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

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


Yet more; the ftroke of death he must abide, 20 Then lies him meekly down faft 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 reft Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and fofter ftrings

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



Befriend me Night, beft 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 forrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves should all be black whereon I write,
And letters where my tears have wash'd a wannish
See, see the chariot, and thofe rufhing wheels, 36
That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit fome transporting Cherub feels,
To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem ftood,
Once glorious tow'rs, now funk in guiltless blood;
There doth my foul in holy vision fit
In penfive trance, and anguish, and exftatic fit.



Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock
That was the cafket of Heav'n's richeft ftore,
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 sure so well inftructed are my tears,

That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.

Or fhould I thence hurried on viewless wing, 50
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)

Might think th' infection of my forrows loud 55 Had got a race of mourners on fome pregnant cloud. 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.


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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 thyfelf with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, 5 And merely mortal dross,

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou haft intomb'd, And aftof all thy greedy felf consum'd,

A a



Then long Eternity fhall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss;

And Joy fhall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is fincerely good

And perfectly divine,


With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever fhine About the fupreme throne

Of him, t'whose happy-making fight alone

When once our heav'nly-guided foul shall clime, Then all this earthy groffness quit,

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



Triumphingover Death, and Chance, and thee, O



"E flaming Pow'rs, and winged Warriors bright That erft with mufic, and triumphant song, First heard by happy watchful shepherds ear, So fweetly fung your joy the clouds along Through the soft silence of the listling night; Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bear Your fiery effense can diftil no tear,


Burn in your fighs, and borrow

Seas wept from our deep forrow:

He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease;


Alas, how foon our fin

Sore doth begin

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