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ALEXANDER ROSSE.

AURORA.

A MEDITATION.

As fair Aurora from old Tithon's bed

Flies out with painted wings, and them doth spread

Upon the firmament;

So from the heaven's golden cabinet

Out flies a morning all with roses set,
Of graces redolent;

Whose presence did revive the hearts of those
Whom night of sin and error did enclose
Within her darkest cell.

This Morning in a purple chariot rides,
Drawn by four milk-white steeds; the reins he
guides

In spite of death and hell:

Christ is this Morning, who triumphantly
On the bright chariot of his word doth fly:
The four white horses are

The four evangelists, whose light doth run
As swift as doth Aurora, or the sun,

Or morn, or any star.

"Tis he, that eagle-like our youth renews, And in us all infirmities subdues :

'Tis he whose radiant wings

Display'd abroad, have chas'd away the night, And usher'd in the day which mental light And true contentment brings.

Oh Thou, whose face doth gild the canopy, That doth infold fire, air, and earth, and sea, Extend thy glorious rays

On me!

Oh let me see that countenance

Which may dispel the night of ignorance!— So shall I sing thy praise.

BACCHUS.

A MEDITATION.

If you would a monarch see
All array'd, in majesty,

Who triumphed first, and wore
Such a crown as none before
Could attain to-Christ is he,
Who triumphing on a tree
Kill'd the snake with his two stings,
Death and sin, and captiv'd kings,
And the Titans, who combine
Heaven itself to undermine.
This is he whose eloquence
Doth surpass all human sense;
From whose lips, as from a still,
Drops of nectar down did rill;
When our hearts with fear did pine,
We found out that pleasant wine

Which hath made us laugh, and sing
Hallelujahs to our King.

He flung overboard and drown'd
All the pirates that him bound;
When they had his body torn

With their whips and crown of thorn,
When they thought he had been slain,
He reviv'd and rose again.

Hecaté, queen of the night,

Held him not, for all her might;
But this uncontrolled Prince

Burst her gates, and got out thence.
O, thou only God of wine,
Comfort this poor heart of mine,
With that nectar of thy blood
Which runs from thee like a flood!
On thy fruitless servant pour
From thy veins a crimson shower:
Let that dew of rubies, which
Fell from thee, my soul enrich;
Let me taste of that sweet sap

Which distill'd from this crush'd grape: 'Twas for me this grape was press'd— Drink, my soul, and take thy rest.

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