He feels from Juda's land The dreaded infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord, with hand-maid lamp, attending: And all about the courtly stable EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light, For now to sorrow must I tune my song, Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! He, sovran priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies: Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. These latest scenes confine my roving verse; Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me, night, best patroness of grief: That heaven and earth are colour'd with my woe; The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, There doth my soul in holy vision sit, Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing Might think the 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. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, 'He, who with all heaven's heraldry whilere Z Alas, how soon our sin His infancy to seize ! O more exceeding love, or law more just? And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT, Dying of a Cough. O FAIREST flower, no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose fading timelessly, Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted Bleak winter's force that made thy blossom dry; For he, being amorous on that lovely dye That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss. For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer, Of long-uncoupled bed and childless eld, Which, 'mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held. So, mounting up in icy-pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air But, all unwares, with his cold kind embrace Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place. Yet thou art not inglorious in thy fate; But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power! Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Oh no! for something in thy face did shine Resolve me, then, oh soul most surely blest! Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof Of sheeny heaven, and thou, some goddess fled, Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head? |