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In Memphian Grove, or Green,

Trampling the unshowr'd Grasse with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest,

Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems dark The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.

He feels from Juda's Land The dredded Infants hand,

The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside, Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew.

So when the Sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, The flocking shadows pale, Troop to th'infernall jail.

Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes,

Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov'd maze.

But see the Virgin blest, 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.

John Milton

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