| |
| IT was the Winter wilde | |
| While the Heav’n-born-childe, | |
| All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; | |
| Nature in aw to him | |
| Had doff’t her gawdy trim, | 5 |
| With her great Master so to sympathise: | |
| It was no season then for her | |
| To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. | |
| |
| Only with speeches fair | |
| She woo’s the gentle Air | 10 |
| To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, | |
| And on her naked shame, | |
| Pollute with sinful blame, | |
| The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, | |
| Confounded, that her Makers eyes | 15 |
| Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. | |
| |
| But he her fears to cease, | |
| Sent down the meek-eyed Peace, | |
| She crown’d with Olive green, came softly sliding | |
| Down through the turning sphear 1 | 20 |
| His ready Harbinger, | |
| With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, | |
| And waving wide her mirtle wand, | |
| She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. | |
| |
| No War, or Battails sound | 25 |
| Was heard the World around, | |
| The idle spear and shield were high up hung; | |
| The hooked Chariot 2 stood | |
| Unstain’d with hostile blood, | |
| The Trumpet spake not to the armèd throng, | 30 |
| And Kings sate still with awfull eye, | |
| As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. | |
| |
| But peaceful was the night | |
| Wherin the Prince of light | |
| His raign of peace upon the earth began: | 35 |
| The Windes with wonder whist, | |
| Smoothly the waters kist, | |
| Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, | |
| Who now hath quite forgot to rave, | |
| While Birds of Calm 3 sit brooding on the charmèd wave. | 40 |
| |
| The Stars with deep amaze | |
| Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, | |
| Bending one way their pretious influence, | |
| And will not take their flight, | |
| For all the morning light, | 45 |
| Or Lucifer 4 that often warn’d them thence; | |
| But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, | |
| Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. | |
| |
| And though the shady gloom | |
| Had given day her room, | 50 |
| The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, | |
| And hid his head for shame, | |
| As his inferiour flame, | |
| The new enlightn’d world no more should need; | |
| He saw a greater Sun appear | 55 |
| Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. | |
| |
| The Shepherds on the Lawn, | |
| Or ere the point of dawn, | |
| Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; | |
| Full little thought they than, | 60 |
| That the mighty Pan 5 | |
| Was kindly com to live with them below; | |
| Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, | |
| Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. | |
| |
| When such musick sweet | 65 |
| Their hearts and ears did greet, | |
| As never was by mortall finger strook, | |
| Divinely-warbled voice | |
| Answering the stringèd noise, | |
| As all their souls in blisfull rapture took: | 70 |
| The Air such pleasure loth to lose, | |
| With thousand echo’s still prolongs each heav’nly close. | |
| |
| Nature that heard such sound | |
| Beneath the hollow round | |
| Of Cynthia’s seat, the Airy region thrilling, | 75 |
| Now was almost won | |
| To think her part was don, | |
| And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; | |
| She knew such harmony alone | |
| Could hold all Heav’n and Earth in happier union. | 80 |
| |
| At last surrounds their sight | |
| A Globe of circular light, | |
| That with long beams the shame-fac’t night array’d, | |
| The helmèd Cherubim | |
| And sworded Seraphim, | 85 |
| Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, | |
| Harping in loud and solemn quire, | |
| With unexpressive notes to Heav’ns new-born Heir. | |
| |
| Such Musick (as ’tis said) | |
| Before was never made, | 90 |
| But when of old the sons of Morning sung, | |
| While the Creator Great | |
| His constellations set, | |
| And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung, | |
| And cast the dark foundations deep, | 95 |
| And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep. | |
| |
| Ring out ye Crystall sphears, | |
| Once bless our human ears, | |
| (If ye have power to touch our senses so) | |
| And let your silver chime | 100 |
| Move in melodious time; | |
| And let the Base of Heav’ns deep Organ blow | |
| And with your ninefold harmony | |
| Make up full consort to th’ Angelike symphony. | |
| |
| For if such holy Song | 105 |
| Enwrap our fancy long, | |
| Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, | |
| And speckl’d vanity | |
| Will sicken soon and die, | |
| And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, | 110 |
| And Hell it self will pass away, | |
| And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. | |
| |
| Yea Truth, and Justice then | |
| Will down return to men, | |
| Th’ enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, | 115 |
| And Mercy set between, | |
| Thron’d in Celestiall sheen, | |
| With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, | |
| And Heav’n as at som festivall, | |
| Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. | 120 |
| |
| But wisest Fate sayes no, | |
| This must not yet be so, | |
| The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, | |
| That on the bitter cross | |
| Must redeem our loss; | 125 |
| So both himself and us to glorifie: | |
| Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep, | |
| The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep. | |
| |
| With such a horrid clang | |
| As on mount Sinai rang | 130 |
| While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: | |
| The agèd Earth agast | |
| With terrour of that blast, | |
| Shall from the surface to the center shake; | |
| When at the worlds last session, | 135 |
| The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne | |
| |
| And then at last our bliss | |
| Full and perfect is, | |
| But now begins; for from this happy day | |
| Th’ old Dragon 6 under ground | 140 |
| In straiter limits bound, | |
| Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway, | |
| And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, | |
| Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. | |
| |
| The Oracles are dumm, | 145 |
| No voice or hideous humm | |
| Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. | |
| Apollo from his shrine | |
| Can no more divine, | |
| With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. | 150 |
| No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, | |
| Inspire’s the pale-ey’d Priest from the prophetic cell. | |
| |
| The lonely mountains o’re, | |
| And the resounding shore, | |
| A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; | 155 |
| From haunted spring, and dale | |
| Edg’d with poplar pale, | |
| The parting Genius is with sighing sent, | |
| With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn | |
| The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. | 160 |
| |
| In consecrated Earth, | |
| And on the holy Hearth, | |
| The Lars, and Lemures 7 moan with midnight plaint, | |
| In Urns, and Altars round, | |
| A drear, and dying sound | 165 |
| Affrights the Flamins 8 at their service quaint; | |
| And the chill Marble seems to sweat, | |
| While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. | |
| |
| Peor, and Baalim, 9 | |
| Forsake their Temples dim, | 170 |
| With that twise-batter’d god of Palestine, 10 | |
| And moonèd Ashtaroth, 11 | |
| Heav’ns Queen and Mother both, | |
| Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, | |
| The Libyc Hammon 12 shrinks his horn, | 175 |
| In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz 13 mourn. | |
| |
| And sullen Moloch 14 fled, | |
| Hath left in shadows dred, | |
| His burning Idol all of blackest hue, | |
| In vain with Cymbals ring, | 180 |
| They call the grisly king, | |
| In dismall dance about the furnace blue; | |
| The brutish gods of Nile as fast, | |
| Isis and Orus, 15 and the Dog Anubis 16 hast. | |
| |
| Nor is Osiris 17 seen | 185 |
| In Memphian Grove, or Green, | |
| Trampling the unshowr’d Grasse 18 with lowings loud; | |
| Nor can he be at rest | |
| Within his sacred chest, | |
| Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, | 190 |
| In vain with Timbrel’d Anthems dark | |
| The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. | |
| |
| He feels from Juda’s Land | |
| The dredded Infants hand, | |
| The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; | 195 |
| Nor all the gods beside, | |
| Longer dare abide, | |
| Not Typhon 19 huge ending in snaky twine: | |
| Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, | |
| Can in his swadling bands controul the damnèd crew. | 200 |
| |
| So when the Sun in bed, | |
| Curtain’d with cloudy red, | |
| Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, | |
| The flocking shadows pale, | |
| Troop to th’ infernall jail, | 205 |
| Each fetter’d Ghost slips to his severall grave, | |
| And the yellow-skirted Fayes, | |
| Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov’d maze. | |
| |
| But see the Virgin blest, | |
| Hath laid her Babe to rest. | 210 |
| Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, | |
| Heav’ns youngest teemèd 20 Star, | |
| Hath fixt her polisht Car, | |
| Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: | |
| And all about the Courtly Stable, | 215 |
| Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable. | |
