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XXV.

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;

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

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The flocking shadows pale

Troop to th' infernal jail;

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;

And the yellow-skirted fays

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

But see, the Virgin blest

XXVII,

Hath laid her Babe to rest.

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

Hath fixt her polisht car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnest angels sit in order serviceable.

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L'ALLEGRO.

HENCE, loathed Melancholy!

Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy: Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding darkness 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 come, thou goddess fair and free,

In Heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne

And by men, heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,

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With two sister Graces more,

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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-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin;
And to the stack, or the barn door,
Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbring morn,
From the side of some hoar hill
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Some time walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms on hillocks green;
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames, and amber light,

The clouds in thousand liveries dight:
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er 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.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landscape round it measures:
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied;
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosom'd high in tufted trees;
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks;
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;

And then in haste her bower she leaves,

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In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold;

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With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms; while both contend
To win her grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear,
In saffron robe, with taper clear;
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique pageantry;
Such sights as youthful poets dream,
On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on;
Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

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