Nor is Ofiris feen XXIV. In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unfhower'd grafs with lowings loud; Nor can he be at reft Within his facred cheft, Nought but profoundest Hell can be his fhroud; In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark The fable-ftoled forcerers bear his worshipt ark. 220 . XXV. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the Gods befide Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in fnaky twine: Our babe, to fhow his Godhead true, 225 Can in his fwadling-bands controll the damned crew. Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghoft flips to his feveral grave, And the yellow-fkirted Fayes 235 Fly after the night-fleeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze. XXVII. But But fee the Virgin bleft XXVII. Hath laid her Babe to rest, Time is our tedious fong should here have ending: Heaven's youngest teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, 240 Her fleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright harnest Angels fit in order ferviceable. E IV. THE PASSION. I. 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 Mufe with Angels did divide to sing; In wintry folftice like the shorten'd light II. For now to forrow muft I tune my fong, And fet my harp to notes of faddeft woe, Moft perfect Hero, try'd in heaviest plight 5 10 Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight! III. He III. He sovran Prieft ftooping his regal head, His ftarry front low-rooft beneath the skies; 15 20 Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's fide. IV. Thefe latest scenes confine my roving verse, Of lute, or viol ftill, more apt for mournful things. V. Befriend me, Night, beft patronefs of grief, 25 30 I The leaves fhould all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have wash'd a wannish white. VI. See, fee the chariot, and those rushing wheels, * That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood, My spirit fome tranfporting Cherub feels, 35 • To To bear me where the towers of Salem stood, Once glorious tow'rs, now funk in guiltless blood; 40 There doth my foul in holy vision fit In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit, VII. Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock For fure fo well inftructed are my tears, VIII. Or fhould I thence hurried on viewless wing, 50 Might think th' infection of my forrows loud Had got a race of mourners on fome pregnant cloud. 55 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. V. ON F V. ON TIM E. LY. envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden- ftepping 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 drofs; So little is our lofs, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou haft intomb'd, Then long Eternity fhall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, When every thing that is fincerely good 5 10 And perfectly divine, With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine About the fupreme throne Of him, t' whofe happy-making fight alone When once our heav'nly-guided foul fhall climb, Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever fit, 15 20 Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time. VI. UPON |