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. | |
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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. | |
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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? | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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 |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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: | |
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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 |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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 |
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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. | |
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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; | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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 |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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 |
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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. | |
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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. | |
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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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