206
COWLEY'S POEMS.
[B. I.
The jocund spheres began again to play, 415
Again each Spirit sung Halleluia;
Only that Angel was straight gone; even so
(But not so swift) the morning-glories flow
At once from the bright sun, and strike the ground;
So winged lightning the soft air does wound. 420
Slow Time admires, and knows not what to call
The motion, having no account so small.
So flew this Angel, till to David's bed
He came, and thus his sacred message said:
"Awake, young man, hear what thy king has sworn; 425
"He swore thy blood should paint this rising morn:
"Yet to him go securely, when he sends;
"’Tis Saul that is your foe, and God your friends:
"The man who has his God, no aid can lack;
"And he who bids thee go, will bring thee back." 430
Up leap'd Jessides, and did round him stare,
But could see nought; for nought was left but air:
Whilst this great vision labours in his thought,
Lo! the short prophecy t' effect is brought:
In treacherous haste he's sent for to the king, 435
And with him bid his charmful lyre to bring.
The king, they say, lies raging in a fit,
Which does no cure but sacred tunes admit;
And true it was, soft musick did appease
Th' obscure fantastick rage of Saul's disease. 440
Tell me, oh Muse! (for thou, or none, canst tell,
The mystick powers that in blest numbers dwell;
Again each Spirit sung Halleluia;
Only that Angel was straight gone; even so
(But not so swift) the morning-glories flow
At once from the bright sun, and strike the ground;
So winged lightning the soft air does wound. 420
Slow Time admires, and knows not what to call
The motion, having no account so small.
So flew this Angel, till to David's bed
He came, and thus his sacred message said:
"Awake, young man, hear what thy king has sworn; 425
"He swore thy blood should paint this rising morn:
"Yet to him go securely, when he sends;
"’Tis Saul that is your foe, and God your friends:
"The man who has his God, no aid can lack;
"And he who bids thee go, will bring thee back." 430
Up leap'd Jessides, and did round him stare,
But could see nought; for nought was left but air:
Whilst this great vision labours in his thought,
Lo! the short prophecy t' effect is brought:
In treacherous haste he's sent for to the king, 435
And with him bid his charmful lyre to bring.
The king, they say, lies raging in a fit,
Which does no cure but sacred tunes admit;
And true it was, soft musick did appease
Th' obscure fantastick rage of Saul's disease. 440
Tell me, oh Muse! (for thou, or none, canst tell,
The mystick powers that in blest numbers dwell;
