Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!

And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

Into this wild Abyss/ The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave--/ Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,/ But all these in their pregnant causes mixed/ Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,/ Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain/ His dark materials to create more worlds,--/ Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend/ Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while,/ Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith/ He had to cross.

Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.

The Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill.

Such bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?

No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.