Tixall Poetry.
267
Truth's selfe disclaim'd his seate
Should dwell in lying Crete.
Delos in vain look'd up with hope awhile;
The flying house past ore the floating isle.
Unhappy easterne nations! dayly thus
Suns rise with you, but alwaise make to us.
The never-erring chair is come
From your Antioch to our Rome;
Poore Nazareth's sole blis
Now too translated is:
On fair Loretto's hill it stands,
Thither convey'd by angells hands;
Where the same roofe, that in our father's age
A pilgrim was, is now a pilgrimage.
Should dwell in lying Crete.
Delos in vain look'd up with hope awhile;
The flying house past ore the floating isle.
Unhappy easterne nations! dayly thus
Suns rise with you, but alwaise make to us.
The never-erring chair is come
From your Antioch to our Rome;
Poore Nazareth's sole blis
Now too translated is:
On fair Loretto's hill it stands,
Thither convey'd by angells hands;
Where the same roofe, that in our father's age
A pilgrim was, is now a pilgrimage.
