Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.

But see! theVirgin blessed Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending.

In those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.

So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.

Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.