Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not [thy sacred vein] 15
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the heaven, by [the Sun’s team] untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light, 20
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
IV.
See how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet!