Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud: In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. He feels from Judah's land The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; 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 swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered 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; ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. Time is, our tedious song should here have ending; Heaven's youngest-teemèd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping LORD with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable. EVE'S LAMENT. UNEXPECTED stroke, worse than of death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend, THE EXPULSION FROM PARADISE. Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day At even, which I bred up with tender hand Into a lower world, to this obscure And wild? how shall we breathe in other air Now too nigh Th' Archangel stood, and from the other hill Risen from a river o'er the marish glides, With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms: Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon: The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, |