Quantitative Aptitude Test 47

IT was the Winter wilde, While the Heavn born childe, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in aw to him Had dofft her gawdy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.

Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinfull blame, The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes Should look so neer upon her foul deformities.

But he her fears to cease, Sent down the meek eyd Peace, She crownd with Olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphear His ready Harbinger, With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, And waving wide her mirtle wand, She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.

No War, or Battails sound Was heard the World around, The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked Chariot stood Unstaind with hostile blood, The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And Kings sate still with awfull eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peacefull was the night Wherin the Prince of light His raign of peace upon the earth began: The Windes with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmeed wave.

The Stars with deep amaze Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, Bending one way their pretious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warnd them thence; But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself with held his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferiour flame, The new enlightnd world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.

The Shepherds on the Lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly com to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.

When such musick sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortall finger strook, Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blisfull rapture took The Air such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echos still prolongs each heavnly close.

Nature that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthias seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was don, And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heavn and Earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight A Globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame fact night arrayd, The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heavns new born Heir.

Such musick (as tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great His constellations set, And the well ballanct world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out ye Crystall sphears, Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the Base of Heavns deep Organ blow And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to thAngelike symphony.

For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckld vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea Truth, and Justice then Will down return to men, Thenameld Arras of the Rain bow wearing, And Mercy set between, Thrond in Celestiall sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heavn as at som festivall, Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.

But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychaind in sleep, The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Thold Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.

The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale eyd Priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains ore, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edgd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre inwovn tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated Earth, And on the holy Hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, In Urns, and Altars round, A drear, and dying sound Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat

Peor, and Baalim, Forsake their Temples dim, With that twise batterd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, Heavns Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred, His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian Grove, or Green, Trampling the unshowrd Grasse with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, In vain with Timbreld Anthems dark The sable stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.

He feels from Judas Land The dredded Infants hand, The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside, Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew. So when the Sun in bed, Curtaind with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, The flocking shadows pale, Troop to thinfernall jail, Each fetterd Ghost slips to his severall grave, And the yellow skirted Fayes, Fly after the Night steeds, leaving their Moon lovd maze. But see the Virgin blest, Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, Heavns youngest teemed Star, Hath fixt her polisht Car, Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: And all about the Courtly Stable, Bright harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.