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Society is all but rude
No white nor red was ever seen
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
What wondrous life is this I lead!
My soul into the boughs does glide;
Such was the happy garden state, While man there walked without mate:
After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 't was beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there:
Two paradises are in one, To live in paradise alone.
Thus sang they in the English boat
How well the skilful gardener drew
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flow
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.
HYMN ON THE NATIVITY.
IT was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe of him,
Had doffed her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
Only with speeches fair
She wooes the gentle air,
And, though the shady gloom
To hide her guilty front with innocent Had given day her room,
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
And on her naked shame,
The saintly veil of maiden-white to As his inferior flame
And kings sat still with awful eye,
For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer had often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
But peaceful was the night,
His reign of peace upon the earth began:
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
The stars, with deep amaze,
Bending one way their precious influ
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame,
And will not take their flight,
The new-enlightened world no more should need;
No war or battle's sound
The idle spear and shield were high up- Divinely warbled voice
The hooked chariot stood
The trumpet spake not to the arméd
He saw a greater sun appear
Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet,
As never was by mortal fingers strook,
Answering the stringéd noise,
As all their souls in blissful rapture
The air, such pleasure loath to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such sound,
Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region Now was almost won, thrilling,
To think her part was done,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; Could hold all heaven and earth in happier She knew such harmony alone union.
At last surrounds their sight
That with long beams the shame-faced
The helméd cherubim,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim
With that twice-battered God of Pales-
And moonéd Ashtaroth,
The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn;
And sullen Moloch, fled,
His burning idol all of blackest hue: In vain with cymbals' ring
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Naught 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 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 damnéd crew.
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave;
So, when the sun in bed,
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
And the yellow-skirted fays
They call the grisly king,
In dismal dance about the furnace blue: How soon hath Time, the subtle thief The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
Nor is Osiris seen
My lasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth.
In Memphian grove or green,
Trampling the unshowered grass with Perhaps my semblance might deceive the
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE.
My true account, lest he returning | Christ leads me through no darker rooms
Come, Lord, when grace has made me
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Thy blessed face to see;
For if thy work on earth be sweet,
Then shall I end my sad complaints,
And weary, sinful days;
SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE.
BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds
That which the world miscalls a jail
And innocence my liberty:
I, whilst I wisht to be retired,
Into this private room was turned; As if their wisdoms had conspired
The salamander should be burned; Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrained to suffer what I wish.
The cynic loves his poverty;
The pelican her wilderness;