Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands controul the damned crew. |