Swath'd in substantial Shrowds of Night,
The sick'ning , shall from the World retire,
Stript of his dazling Robes of Fire,
Which dangling once shed round a lavish Flood of Light
No frail Eclipse, but all Essential Shade,
Not yielding to Primæval Gloom,
Whilst Day was yet an  in the Womb,
Nor glimmering in it's Source, with Silver Streamers play'd.
A  Mixture of the Darkness, spread
O'er murmuring  Head,
And that, which Angels drew
O'er Nature's Face, when  dy'd,
Which sleeping Ghosts for this mistook,
And rising, off their hanging Funerals, shook,
And fleeting pass'd, expos'd their bloodless Breasts to View,
Yet find it not so dark, and to their Dormitories glide.