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Tis late, and cold—stir up the fire. Sit close, and draw the table nigher; Be merry and drink wine that 's old, A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold. Welcome—welcome shall fly round!" Author:Francis Beaumont and Author:John Fletcher.—Song in the Lover's Progress.

As when the Great Poet,

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained In that obscure sojourn; while, in his flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne, He sang of chaos, and eternal night:—

As when, revisiting the "Holy Light, offspring of heaven first-born," the sense of freshness and glory breaks upon him, and kindles into the solemn joyfulness of adjuring song: so rises the mind