Verse > Anthologies > Francis T. Palgrave, ed. > The Golden Treasury
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Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury.  1875.
 
J. Milton
 
LXII. Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity
 
THIS is the month, and this the happy morn 
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King 
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring; 
For so the holy sages once did sing         5
That He our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. 
  
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty 
Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table  10
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside; and, here with us to be, 
Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 
  
Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein  15
Afford a present to the Infant God? 
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain 
To welcome Him to this His new abode, 
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, 
Hath took no print of the approaching light,  20
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? 
  
See how from far, upon the eastern road, 
The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: 
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode 
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;  25
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, 
And join thy voice unto the Angel quire 
From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. 
  
THE HYMN

It was the winter wild
 
While the heaven-born Child  30
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 
Nature in awe to Him 
Had doff'd her gaudy trim, 
With her great Master so to sympathize: 
It was no season then for her  35
To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 
  
Only with speeches fair 
She woos the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; 
And on her naked shame,  40
Pollute with sinful blame, 
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; 
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 
  
But He, her fears to cease,  45
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; 
She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His ready harbinger, 
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;  50
And waving wide her myrtle wand, 
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 
  
No war, or battle's sound 
Was heard the world around: 
The idle spear and shield were high uphung;  55
The hookèd chariot stood 
Unstain'd with hostile blood; 
The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; 
And kings sat still with awful eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.  60
  
But peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of Light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began: 
The winds, with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kist  65
Whispering new joys to the mild oceàn— 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. 
  
The stars, with deep amaze, 
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,  70
Bending one way their precious influence; 
And will not take their flight 
For all the morning light, 
Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow  75
Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go. 
  
And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
And hid his head for shame,  80
As his inferior flame 
The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; 
He saw a greater Sun appear 
Than his bright throne, or burning axle-tree could bear. 
  
The shepherds on the lawn  85
Or ere the point of dawn 
Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; 
Full little thought they than 
That the mighty Pan 
Was kindly come to live with them below;  90
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:— 
  
When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet 
As never was by mortal finger strook—  95
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringèd noise, 
As all their souls in blissful rapture took: 
The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 100
  
Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was done, 105
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. 
  
At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light 110
That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd; 
The helmèd Cherubim 
And sworded Seraphim 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire 115
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir. 
  
Such music (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made 
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, 
While the Creator great 120
His constellations set 
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 
  
Ring out, ye crystal spheres! 125
Once bless our human ears, 
If ye have power to touch our senses so; 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time; 
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; 130
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 
  
For if such holy song 
Enwrap our fancy long, 
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; 135
And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; 
And Hell itself will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 140
  
Yea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 
Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, 
Mercy will sit between 
Throned in celestial sheen, 145
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; 
And Heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. 
  
But wisest Fate says No; 
This must not yet be so; 150
The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss; 
So both Himself and us to glorify: 
Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep 155
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep; 
  
With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang 
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: 
The aged Earth aghast 160
With terror of that blast 
Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 
When, at the world's last sessiòn, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne. 
  
And then at last our bliss 165
Full and perfect is, 
But now begins; for from this happy day 
The old Dragon under ground, 
In straiter limits bound, 
Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway; 170
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 
  
The Oracles are dumb; 
No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. 175
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: 
No nightly trance or breathèd spell 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 180
  
The lonely mountains o'er 
And the resounding shore 
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; 
From haunted spring and dale 
Edged with poplar pale 185
The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 
  
In consecrated earth 
And on the holy hearth 190
The Lars and Lemurès moan with midnight plaint; 
In urns, and altars round 
A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 195
While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. 
  
Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; 
And moonèd Ashtaroth 200
Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn: 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 
  
And sullen Moloch, fled, 205
Hath left in shadows dread 
His burning idol all of blackest hue; 
In vain with cymbals' ring 
They call the grisly king, 
In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 210
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 
  
Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove, or green, 
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: 215
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest; 
Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; 
In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark 
The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. 220
  
He feels from Juda's land 
The dreaded Infant's hand; 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; 
Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide, 225
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: 
Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, 
Can in His swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. 
  
So, when the sun in bed 
Curtain'd with cloudy red 230
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail, 
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; 
And the yellow-skirted fays 235
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. 
  
But see! the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest; 
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: 
Heaven's youngest-teemèd star 240
Hath fix'd her polish'd car, 
Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. 
 
 
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