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Proud world, said I, cease your contest,

And let the mighty babe alone,
The phenix builds the phenix' nest,

architecture is His own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.

Chorus. The babe whose birth, &c.

I saw the curld drops, soft and slow,

Come hovering o'er the place’s head,
Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow,

To furnish the fair infant's bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold, Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.

I saw th' obsequious seraphim

fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings,

Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure ?

Chorus. Well done, said I, &c.

No, no, your King's not yet to seek

Where to repose His royal head ;
See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek

'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed.

Sweet choice,

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Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow ! uma

Chorus. Sweet choice, said



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Welcome all wonders in one sight!

Eternity shut in a span

! Summer in winter! day in night!

Heaven in earth! and God in man!

Great little one, whose all-embracing birth
Lifts earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to earth!

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Welcome, tho' nor to gold, nor silk,

To more than Cæsar's birthright is
Two sister seas of virgin's milk,

With many a rarely-temper'd kiss,
That breathes at once both maid and mother,
Warms in the one, cools in the other.

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She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips

Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; ? fos She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,

That in their buds yet blushing lie. She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes.*

Welcome—tho' not to those gay flies,

Gilded i'th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes—

* This verse is not in the version of the Paris edition of 1652.

But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth’s their flocks, whose wit's to be Well read in their simplicity.

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Yet, when young April's husband show'rs

Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers,

To kiss Thy feet, and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King

Of simple graces and sweet loves !
Each of us his lamb will bring,

Each his pair of silver doves !
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!





CASTING the times with their strong signs,
Death's master His own death divines;
Struggling for help, His best hope is
Herod's suspicion may heal His:
Therefore He sends a friend to wake
The sleeping tyrant's fond mistake,
Who fears, in vain, that He whose birth
Means heav'n should meddle with his earth.


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USE, now the servant of soft loves no more,
Hate is thy theme, and Herod; whose unblest
Hand-so what dares not jealous great-

A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' breast,
The blooms of martyrdom. Q, be a door

Of language to my infant lips, ye best imag

Of confessors! whose throats, answering his swords,
Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke souls for words.

Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride,
Thou mighty branch of emperors and kings;
The beauties of whose dawn what eye may bide,
Which with the sun himself weighs equal wings!

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Map of heroic worth! whom far and wide
To the believing world Fame boldly sings :

Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows

To be the sacred honour of thy brows.
Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flow’rs,
Other than what their own blest beauties bring;
They were the smiling sons of those sweet bow'rs
That drink the dew of life, whose deathless spring
Nor Syrian flame, nor Borean frost deflow'rs:
From whence heav'n-labouring bees, with busy wing,

Suck hidden sweets, which well-digested proves
Immortal honey for the hive of loves.

Thou, whose strong hand, with so transcendent worth,
Holds high the reign of fair Parthenope,
That neither Rome nor Athens can bring forth
A name in noble deeds rival to thee !
Thy fame's full noise makes proud the patient earth,
Far more than matter for my Muse and me.

The Tyrrhene seas and shores sound all the same,
And in their murmurs keep thy mighty name!

Below the bottom of the great abyss,
There, where one centre reconciles all things,
The world's profound heart pants; there placed is
Mischief's old master : close about him clings
A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss
His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings

Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties,
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.

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