Which, when it saw the lovely child,

The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled:

Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know, 5

But ever ebb and ever flow!

Thou golden shower of a true Jove!

Who does in thee descend, and heaven to earth make love!

Say, from what golden quivers of the sky

Do all thy wingèd arrows fly? 10

Swiftness and power by birth are thine;

From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the Word Divine.