John Milton, 'Morning of Christ's Nativity', 1629, William Blake's Illustrations, 1809 (original) (raw)

XXIV

Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian Grove or Green,
Trampling the unshow'r'd Grass 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.

XXV

He feels from Judah's Land
The dreaded Infant's hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Nor all the gods beside,
Longer dare abide,
Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

XXVI

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'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.

XXVII

But see! The Virgin blest,
Hath laid her Babe to rest.
Time is our tedious Song should here have ending;
Heav'n's youngest-teemed Star
Hath fixt her polisht Car,
Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending;
And all about the Courtly Stable,
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.