VICTOR

Have no dread, holy Patrick, all their malice Shall never hurt thy person, Heaven does look With scorn upon their treachery, thou art Reserved to make this Nation glorious, By their conversion to the Christian faith, Which shall by blood of many Martyrs grow, Till it be called the Island os the Saints; Look up, and see what thou observest. Milcho throwing his treasures into the flames. Down from the skies, Commanded by the Power that lies The world and nature in a c aine, We come, we come, a glorious train, To wait on thee, And make thy person danger free: Hark while we sing, And keep time with our golden wing, To show how earth and heaven agree, What echo rises to our harmo ic. Holy Patrick, sleep in peace, While I thy Guardian, with these My fellow Angels, wait on thee, For thy desence: A troop, I see, Of serpents, vipers, and what ere Does carry killing poison, here Summoned by Art, and power of hell; But thou shalt soon their fury quell, And by the strength of thy command, These creatures shall forsake the Land, And creep into the sea; no more To live upon the Irish shore. Once more then. Patrick, sleep; o sleep a while, And wake the Patron of this I'll.