Isti oculi? aut frons haec quae magis astra velit? Quid si aliquod blanda face lene renideat astrum? Lactea si cœli terque quaterque via est? Blandior hic oculus, roseo hoc qui ridet in ore; Lactea frons haec est terque quaterque magis. Ergo negent, coelumque suum sua sidera servent: Sidera de cœlis non bene danda suis. Ergo negant: seque ecce sua sub nube recondunt, Sub tenera occidui nube supercilii: Nec claudi contenta sui munimine cœli, Quaerunt in gremio matris ubi lateant. Non nisi sic tactis ubi nix tepet illa pruinis, Castaque non gelido frigore vernat hyems. Scilicet iste dies tam pulchro vespere tingi Dignus; et hos soles sic decet occidere. Claudat purpureus qui claudit vesper Olympum; Puniceo placeas tu tibi, Phœbe, toro; Dum tibi lascivam Thetis auget adultera noctem, Pone per Hesperias strata pudenda rosas. Illas nempe rosas, quas conscia purpura pinxit; Culpa pudorque suus queis dedit esse rosas. Hos soles, niveae noctes, castumque cubile, Quod purum sternet per mare virgo Thetis; Hos, sancti flores; hos, tam sincera decebant Lilia; quaeque sibi non rubuere rosae. Hos, decuit sinus hic; ubi toto sidere proni Ecce lavant sese lacteo in oceano. Atque lavent: tandemque suo se mane resolvant, Ipsa dies ex hoc ut bibat ore diem. _On the night and winter journey of the Infant Lord._ These tender travellers, feel they Night's dark sway, Mother and Child, too good for whitest day? For how will mother's cheeks, or lips of Child, How kisses fare, from Night and Winter wild? With lilies these, with roses, should be blest, Or sweetest breath of violet-perfum'd West. Such travellers merited to have no night, Or, if at all, one whiter than our light. Winter and Night these tender ones enclose, And what Night plots, or Winter, ah, who knows? Ah, lest fell Winter with its north-winds rage, Ill-omen'd Night its wonted fears engage. Ah, lest rough east-winds should Night's chariot draw, Or harsh south-winds should shake the heart with awe. What real perils troop in Darkness' train, Over what monsters Night extends her reign: What vagrant phantoms, which in false shapes go, Stern-ey'd, black-pinion'd, like the gods below! But standing forth in false forms or in true, For these, for those, a Virgin's dread is due. Come then, come, Cynthia, with resounding bow, And clang thy full-charg'd quiver at the foe. These monsters, those, thy darts unerring share, Nor truer aim thy brother's arrows bear: Come, then, O come, with all thy face a-flame, Worthy thyself to take Apollo's name. Thou know'st how Phœbus' sister ought to shine; If not, learn, Cynthia, from these cheeks divine. Placed here thy torch more beauty would display, And Night from hence prefer to draw its day;