Strona 162 z 1116

Happy is Eloquence when thou art named her sire * But mourns she

whenas other man the title claimed. O Lord of fairest presence,

whose illuming rays * Clear off the fogs of doubt aye veiling

deeds high famed, Ne'er cease thy face to shine like Dawn and

rise of Morn * And never show Time's face with heat of ire

inflamed! Thy grace hath favoured us with gifts that worked such

wise * As rain clouds raining on the hills by wolds enframed:

Freely thou lavishedst thy wealth to rise on high * Till won from

Time the heights whereat thy grandeur aimed.