Cease, all you petty larums; for, to-day
Is young Tom’s resurrection from the clay:
And know, when Tom rings out his knells,
The best of you will be but dinner-bells.
Old Tom’s grown young again, the fiery cave
Is now his cradle, that was erst his grave:
He grew up quickly from his mother earth,
For, all you see was but an hours birth;
Look on him well, my life I dare engage,
You ne’re saw prettier baby of his age.