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But wisest Fate sayes no ;
This must not yet be so;

The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy,

That on the bitter cross


The aged Earth, agast,

With terrour of that blast,

Must redeem our loss,

So both himself and us to glorifie;

Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep


The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep

With such a horrid clang

As on Mount Sinai rang,

While the red fire and smouldring clouds out brake;


And then at last our bliss

Full and perfect is,

Shall from the surface to the center shake;

When at the worlds last session

The dreadfull Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.


But now begins; for, from this happy day,

Th' old Dragon under ground,

In straiter limits bound,

Not half so far casts his usurped sway;
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horrour of his foulded tail.



The oracles are dumm;

No voice or hideous humm

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell,

Inspires the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.







The lonely mountains o're
And the resounding shore

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale

Edg'd with poplar pale

The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

With flowre-in wov'n tresses torn

The nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.


In consecrated earth,

And on the holy hearth

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns and altars round,

A drear and dying sound

Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint;

And the chill marble seems to sweat,

While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.


Peor and Baälim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twise batter'd god of Palestine ; And mooned Ashtaroth,

Heav'ns queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with tapers holy shine;

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn;

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thamuz mourn;


And sullen Moloch, fled,

Hath left in shadows dred

His burning idol all of blackest hue;

In vain with cymbals ring

They call the grisly King

In dismall dance about the furnace blue;

The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis hast.







Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove or green

Trampling the unshowr'd grass with lowings loud, Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest ;

Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.

He feels from Juda's land

The dredded Infant's hand;



The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew.


So, when the Sun in bed

Curtain'd with cloudy red

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

But see the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest;

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to th' infernal jail;

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his severall grave;

And the yellow-skirted Fayes

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


Time is our tedious song should here have ending; Heav'ns youngest teemed star

Hath fixt her polished car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;

And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.








HENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born

In Stygian cave forlorn

'Mongst horrid shapes and shreiks and sights unholy; Find out som uncouth cell,

Wher brooding Darknes spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings;

There, under ebon shades and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com, thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,
And by men heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sisters Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som sager sing)
The frolick wind that breathes the spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing

As he met her once a Maying,
There on beds of Violet blew

And fresh-blown roses washt in dew

Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods and Becks, and wreathed Smiles
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek,
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go

On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;








And, if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull Night
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled Dawn doth rise,
Then to com in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow
Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine,

While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of Darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the barn dore,
Stoutly struts his dames before;
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn
Chearly rouse the slumbring Morn
From the side of som hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill;
Som time walking not unseen
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,

Wher the great Sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight,
While the plowman neer at hand
Whistles ore the furrow'd land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his sithe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the lantskip round it measures,
Russet lawns and fallows gray,
Where the nibling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clowds do often rest,
Meadows trim and daisies pide,
Shallow brooks and rivers wide.
Towers and battlements it sees
Boosom'd high in tufted trees,
Wher perhaps som beauty lies,









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