| 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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