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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 fwadling 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 several And the yellow-fkirted Fayes





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

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Time is our tedious fong fhould here have ending: Heav'n's youngest teemed ftar

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,


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

Bright-harneft Angels fit in order ferviceable.






REWHILE of mufic, and ethereal mirth,

Wherewith the ftage 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 solstice like the shorten'd light Soon fwallow'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 faddeft woe,


Which on our dearest Lord did seise 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 Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight! III.

He sovran priest stooping 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 disguise!


Yet more; the ftroke of death he must abide, 20 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 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 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:

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


(white. See, see the chariot, and those rufhing wheels, 36 That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood, My fpirit fome tranfporting Cherub feels, To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem ftood, Once glorious tow'rs, now funk in guiltlefs blood; There doth my foul in holy vision fit

In pensive trance, and anguish, and exftatic fit.



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.

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 unbosom 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 unfinifli'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 thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is falfe and vain, And merely mortal dross,


So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

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

A a



Then long Eternity shall greet our blifs

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, fhall ever fhine About the fupreme throne

Of him, t'whofe happy-making fight alone

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

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



Triumphingover Death, and Chance, and thee, O



YE flaming Pow'rs, and winged Warriors bright

That erft with mufic, and triumphant fong, First heard by happy watchful fhepherds ear, So fweetly fung your joy the clouds along Through the foft filence of the liftling night; Now mourn, and if fad share with us to bear Your fiery effenfe can distil 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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