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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

Longer dare abide,

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Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in his swaddling bands controul the damned crew.

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