It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide Towers and battlements it sees Bosom’d high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
For Solomon, he lived at ease, and full Of honour, wealth, high fare, aimed not beyond Higher design than to enjoy his state.
And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
O fairest flower! no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.
So glistered the dire Snake, and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
Darkness now rose, as daylight sunk, and brought in low’ring Night her shadowy offspring.
To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory.
So much I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat, nature within me seems In her functions weary of herself.
Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round.
Meanwhile the Adversary of God and man, Satan with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of hell Explores his solitary flight.
And the more I see Pleasures about me, so much more I feel Torment within me.
Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounced and in his volumes taught our Laws, Which others at their Bar so often wrench.
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kisst.