King David

OF Israel’s sweetest singer now I sing,

His holy style and happy victories;

Whose muse was dipt in that inspiring dew,

Archangels ’stilled from the breath of Jove,

Decking her temples with the glorious flowers

Heaven rained on tops of Sion and Mount Sinai.

Upon the bosom of his ivory lute

The cherubim and angels laid their breasts;

And when his consecrated fingers struck

The golden wires of his ravishing harp,

He gave alarum to the host of heaven

That, wing’d with lightning, brake the clouds, and cast

Their crystal armour at his conquering feet.

Of this sweet poet, Jove’s musician,

And of his beauteous son, I press to sing:

That help, divine Adonai, to conduct

Upon the wings of my well-tempered verse

The hearers’ minds above the towers of heaven

And guide them so in this thrice haughty flight,

Their mounting feathers scorch not with the fire,

That none can temper but thy holy hand;

To thee for succour flies my feeble muse,

And at thy feet her iron pen doth use.