Page:Comus and other poems - Milton (1906).djvu/78

 Nor is Osiris seen 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. Rh