Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

The angels carolled loud their song of peace;
The cursèd oracles were strucken dumb;
To see their Shepherd the poor shepherds press;
To see their King the kingly sophies come;
And them to guide unto his Master’s home,
A star comes dancing up the orient,
That springs for joy over the strawy tent,
Where gold, to make their Prince a crown, they all present.

GILES FLETCHER

37. A CHRISTMAS CAROL

[Sung to the King in the Presence at Whitehall.]

_Chorus._
What sweeter music can we bring
Than a carol, for to sing
The birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the voice! awake the string!
Heart, ear, and eye, and every thing
Awake! the while the active finger
Runs division with the singer.

[From the flourish they come to the song.]

1. Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honour to this day,
That sees December turn’d to May.

2. If we may ask the reason, say
The why and wherefore all things here
Seem like the spring-time of the year?

3. Why does the chilling winter’s morn
Smile like a field beset with corn?
Or smell like to a mead new shorn,
Thus on the sudden? 4. Come and see
The cause why things thus fragrant be:

’Tis He is born whose quickening birth
Gives life and lustre, public mirth,
To heaven and the under-earth.

_Chorus._
We see Him come, and know Him ours,
Who with His sunshine and His showers
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

1. The Darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we find a room
To welcome Him. 2. The nobler part
Of all the house here is the heart.

_Chorus._
Which we will give Him; and bequeath
This holly and this ivy wreath,
To do Him honour; who’s our King,
And Lord of all this revelling.
ROBERT HERRICK

38. AN ODE ON THE BIRTH OF OUR SAVIOUR

In numbers, and but these few,
I sing Thy birth, O Jesu!
Thou pretty Baby, born here
With sup’rabundant scorn here:
Who for Thy princely port here,
Hadst for Thy place
Of birth, a base
Out-stable for Thy court here.

Instead of neat enclosures
Of interwoven osiers,
Instead of fragrant posies
Of daffodils and roses,
Thy cradle, kingly Stranger,
As gospel tells,
Was nothing else
But here a homely manger.

But we with silks, not crewels,
With sundry precious jewels,
And lily work will dress Thee;
And, as we dispossess Thee
Of clouts, we’ll make a chamber,
Sweet Babe, for Thee,
Of ivory,
And plastered round with amber.

The Jews they did disdain Thee,
But we will entertain Thee,
With glories to await here
Upon Thy princely state here,
And more for love than pity.
From year to year
We’ll make Thee here
A free-born of our city.
ROBERT HERRICK

39. CHRISTMAS

All after pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I both tired, body and mind,
With full cry of affections quite astray,
I took up in the next inn I could find.

There, when I came, whom found I but my dear—
My dearest Lord; expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to Him; ready there
To be all passengers’ most sweet relief?

O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted, light,
Wrapt in night’s mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is Thy right,
To man, of all beasts, be not Thou a stranger.

Furnish and deck my soul, that Thou may’st have
A better lodging than a rack or grave.

The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for thee?
My soul’s a shepherd too; a flock it feeds
Of thoughts and words and deeds.
The pasture is Thy word, the streams Thy grace,
Enriching every place.

Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers
Outsing the daylight hours.
Then we will chide the sun for letting night
Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should
Himself the candle hold.

I will go searching till I find a sun
Shall stay till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly
As frost-nipt suns look sadly.
Then we will sing and shine all our own day,
And one another pay.

His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till ev’n His beams sing and my music shine.
GEORGE HERBERT

40. 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,
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
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
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,
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;
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
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
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,
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,
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;
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 up-hung,
The hooked chariot stood
Unstain’d with hostile blood;
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng,
And kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

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,
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars with deep amaze
Stand fix’d in steadfast gaze,
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,
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,
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 axletree could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they then
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below;
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;
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringed noise,
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The air such pleasure loth to lose,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

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,
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,
That with long beams the shamefac’d night array’d,
The helmed Cherubim,
And sworded Seraphim,
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display’d,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,
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
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,
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 base of heaven’s deep organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to th’ angelic symphony.

For if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
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.

Yea, Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Orb’d in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
Mercy will sit between,
Thron’d in celestial sheen,
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,
The Babe lies yet 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,
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
With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake;
When at the world’s last session,
The dreadful 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
The old dragon under ground
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway,
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 arched roof in words deceiving
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o’er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edg’d with poplar pale,
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
The Lars and Lemures 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,
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim,
With that twice batter’d god of Palestine;
And mooned Ashtaroth,
Heaven’s queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine;
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled,
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;
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:
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
In vain with timbrell’d anthems dark
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.

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,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,
Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.

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’ infernal jail;
Each fetter’d ghost slips to his several grave,
And the yellow-skirted Fays
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-teemed star
Hath fix’d her polish’d car,
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harness’d angels sit in order serviceable.
JOHN MILTON

41. A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY

_Chorus._
Come we shepherds whose blest sight
Hath met Love’s noon in Nature’s night,
Come, lift we up our loftier song,
And wake the sun that lies too long.

To all our world of well-stol’n joy,
He slept and dreamt of no such thing,
While we found out heaven’s fairer eye
And kist the cradle of our King;
Tell him he rises now too late,
To show us aught worth looking at.

Tell him we now can show him more
Than e’er he showed to mortal sight,
Than he himself e’er saw before,
Which to be seen needs not his light.
Tell him, Tityrus, where th’ hast been,
Tell him, Thyrsis, what th’ hast seen.

_Tityrus._
Gloomy night embraced the place
Where the noble Infant lay,
The Babe looked up and showed His face;
In spite of darkness it was day.
It was Thy day, Sweet, and did rise
Not from the East but from Thine eyes.
_Chorus._—It was Thy day, Sweet, &c.

_Thyrsis._
Winter chid aloud and sent
The angry North to wage his wars,
The North forgot his fierce intent,
And left perfumes instead of scars;
By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers,
Where he meant frost he scattered flowers.
_Chorus._—By those sweet eyes, &c.

_Both._
We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
Bright dawn of our eternal day!
We saw Thine eyes break from their East
And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

_Tityrus._
Poor world (said I), what wilt thou do
To entertain this starry Stranger?
Is this the best thou canst bestow,
A cold and not too cleanly manger?
Contend, ye powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.
_Chorus._—Contend, ye powers, &c.

_Thyrsis._
Proud world (said I), cease your contest,
And let the mighty Babe alone,
The Phoenix builds the Phoenix’ nest,
Love’s architecture is all one.
The Babe whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed ere He was born.
_Chorus._—The Babe whose birth, &c.

_Tityrus._
I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow,
Come hovering o’er the place’s head,
Offering their whitest sheets of snow
To furnish the fair Infant’s bed:
Forbear (said I), be not too bold;
Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.
_Chorus._—Forbear (said I), &c.

_Thyrsis._
I saw the obsequious seraphins
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow;
For well they now can spare their wings,
Since heaven itself lies here below:
Well done (said I), but are you sure
Your down so warm will pass for pure?
_Chorus._—Well done (said I), &c.

_Tityrus._
No, no, your King’s not yet to seek
Where to repose His royal head.
See, see, how soon His new-bloom’d cheek
Twixt’s mother’s breasts is gone to bed:
Sweet choice (said I), no way but so,
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.
_Chorus._—Sweet choice (said I), &c.

_Both._
We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
Bright dawn of our eternal day!
We saw Thine eyes break from their East
And chase the trembling shades away;
We saw Thee and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
_Chorus._—We saw Thee, &c.

_Full Chorus._
Welcome all wonder in one sight,
Eternity shut in a span,
Summer in winter, day in night,
Heaven in earth and God in man!
Great little One! whose all-embracing birth
Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

Welcome, though not to gold nor silk
To more than Caesar’s birthright is,
Two sister seas of virgin milk,
With many a rarely-tempered kiss,
That breathes at once both maid and mother,
Warms in the one and cools in the other.

She sings thy tears asleep, and dips
Her kisses in thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of thy lips
That in their buds yet blushing lie:
She ’gainst those mother-diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle’s eyes.

Welcome, though not to those gay flies
Gilded i’ the beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes,
But to poor shepherds’ home-spun things;
Whose wealth’s their flock, whose wit to be
Well read in their simplicity.

Yet when young April’s husband-showers
Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,
We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers
To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head:
To Thee, dread Lamb, whose love must keep
The shepherds more than they their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty! soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves,
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves,
Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.
RICHARD CRASHAW

42. SATAN’S SIGHT OF THE NATIVITY

Heaven’s golden-wingèd herald late he saw
To a poor Galilean virgin sent:
How long the bright youth bowed, and with what awe
Immortal flowers to her fair hand present.
He saw th’ old Hebrew’s womb neglect the law
Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent
His birth by his devotion, who began
Betimes to be a saint, before a man.

He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour
Of th’ icy north, from frost-bound Atlas’ hands
His adamantine fetters fall; green vigour
Gladding the Scythian rocks and Libyan sands.
He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure
Winter’s sad face, and through the flowery lands
Of fair Engaddi’s honey-sweating fountains
With manna, milk, and balm new broach the mountains.

He saw how in that blest day-bearing night
The heaven rebukèd shades made haste away;
How bright a dawn of angels with new light
Amazed the midnight world, and made a day
Of which the morning knew not; mad with spight
He mark’d how the poor shepherds ran to pay
Their simple tribute to the Babe, whose birth
Was the great business both of heaven and earth.

He saw a threefold sun with rich increase
Make proud the ruby portals of the East,
He saw the temple sacred to sweet peace
Adore her Prince’s birth flat on her breast.
He saw the falling idols all confess
A coming Deity. He saw the nest
Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst,
Touch’d with the world’s true antidote, to burst.

He saw heaven blossom with a new-born light,
On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed
The golden eyes of night, whose beam made bright
The way to Bethlem; and as boldly blazed
(Nor ask’d leave of the sun) by day as night.
By whom (as heaven’s illustrious handmaid) raised
Three kings or, what is more, three wise men went
Westward to find the world’s true orient.

* * * * *

That the great angel-blinding light should shrink
His blaze to shine in a poor shepherd’s eye,
That the unmeasured God so low should sink
As Pris’ner in a few poor rags to lie,
That from His mother’s breast He milk should drink
Who feeds with nectar heaven’s fair family,
That a vile manger His low bed should prove
Who in a throne of stars thunders above:

That He, whom the sun serves, should faintly peep
Through clouds of infant flesh; that He the old
Eternal Word should be a Child and weep,
That He who made the fire should fear the cold:
That heaven’s high majesty His court should keep
In a clay cottage, by each blast controll’d:
That glory’s self should serve our griefs and fears,
And free Eternity submit to years;

And further, that the law’s eternal Giver
Should bleed in His own law’s obedience;
And to the circumcising knife deliver
Himself, the forfeit of His slave’s offence;
That the unblemish’d Lamb, blessed for ever,
Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense:—
These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt
Entangle his lost thoughts past getting out.
RICHARD CRASHAW
(from _Sospetto d’Herode_)

43. A HYMN FOR THE EPIPHANY

[Sung as by the three kings.]

_1st King._
Bright Babe! whose awful beauties make
The morn incur a sweet mistake;
_2nd King._
For whom the officious heavens devise
To disinherit the sun’s rise;
_3rd King._
Delicately to displace
The day, and plant it fairer in thy face;
_1st King._
O Thou born King of loves!
_2nd King._ Of lights!
_3rd King._ Of joys!
_Chorus._
Look up, sweet Babe, look up and see!
For love of Thee,
Thus far from home,
The East is come
To seek herself in Thy sweet eyes.

_1st King._
We who strangely went astray,
Lost in a bright
Meridian night;
_2nd King._
A darkness made of too much day;
_3rd King._
Beckoned from far,
By thy fair star,
Lo, at last have found our way.
_Chorus._
To thee, thou Day of Night; thou East of West!
Lo, we at last have found the way
To thee, the world’s great universal East,
The general and indifferent day.
_1st King._
All-circling point! all-centring sphere!
The world’s one, round, eternal year:
_2nd King._
Whose full and all-unwrinkled face,
Nor sinks nor swells, with time or place;
_3rd King._
But everywhere and every while
Is one consistent solid smile.
_1st King._
Not vexed and tost,
_2nd King._
’Twixt spring and frost;
_3rd King._
Nor by alternate shreds of light,
Sordidly shifting hands with shades and night.
_Chorus._
O little All, in Thy embrace,
The world lies warm and likes his place;
Nor does his full globe fail to be
Kissed on both his cheeks by Thee;
Time is too narrow for Thy year,
Nor makes the whole world Thy half-sphere.

* * * * *

Therefore, to Thee, and Thine auspicious ray,
(Dread sweet!), lo thus,
At least by us,
The delegated eye of day,
Does first his sceptre, then himself, in solemn tribute pay;
Thus he undresses
His sacred unshorn tresses;
At thy adorèd feet thus he lays down,
_1st King._
His glorious tire
Of flame and fire,
_2nd King._ His glittering robe,
_3rd King._ His sparkling crown,
_1st King._ His gold,
_2nd King._ His myrrh,
_3rd King._ His frankincense.
_Chorus._
To which he now has no pretence;
For being show’d by this day’s light, how far
He is from sun, enough to make thy star,
His best ambition now is but to be
Something a brighter shadow, sweet! of thee.
Or on heaven’s azure forehead high to stand,
Thy golden index; with a duteous hand
Pointing us home to our own Sun,
The world’s and his Hyperion.
RICHARD CRASHAW

44. HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

[Being a dialogue between three shepherds.]

_1st._
Where is this blessed Babe
That hath made
All the world so full of joy
And expectation;
That glorious Boy
That crowns each nation
With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?

_2nd._
Where should He be but in the throng,
And among
His angel ministers, that sing
And take wing
Just as may echo to His voice,
And rejoice,
When wing and tongue and all
May so procure their happiness?

_3rd._
But He hath other waiters now:
A poor cow,
An ox and mule, stand and behold,
And wonder
That a stable should enfold
Him that can thunder.
_Chorus._—O what a gracious God have we,
How good! how great! even as our misery.
JEREMY TAYLOR

45. HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

Awake, my soul, and come away:
Put on thy best array;
Lest if thou longer stay
Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day.
Go run,
And bid good-morrow to the sun;
Welcome his safe return
To Capricorn,
And that great morn
Wherein a God was born,
Whose story none can tell
But He whose every word’s a miracle.

To-day Almightiness grew weak;
The Word itself was mute and could not speak.

That Jacob’s star which made the sun
To dazzle if he durst look on,
Now mantled o’er in Bethlehem’s night,
Borrowed a star to show him light.
He that begirt each zone,
To whom both poles are one,
Who grasped the zodiac in his hand
And made it move or stand,
Is now by nature man,
By stature but a span;
Eternity is now grown short;
A King is born without a court;
The water thirsts, the fountain’s dry;
And life, being born, made apt to die.

_Chorus._
Then let our praises emulate and vie
With His humility!
Since He’s exiled from skies
That we might rise,—
From low estate of men
Let’s sing Him up again!
Each man wind up his heart
To bear a part
In that angelic choir and show
His glory high as He was low.
Let’s sing towards men goodwill and charity,
Peace upon earth, glory to God on high!
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
JEREMY TAYLOR

46. CHRISTMAS DAY

Wonder’s birthday,
Which mak’st December’s face
Fairer than May,
And bidst the spring give place
To fresher winter, in whose hardy snow
A flower more sweet than the whole spring doth grow.

For winter now
A virgin plant espies,
Which all his snow
Could never equalize:
More white, more chaste is she, yet fertile too,
The King of Miracles would have it so.

For he it was
Who would be born below.
And find a place
Amongst poor us to grow.
Himself he planted in our dust that he
Might be as true a mortal thing as we.

Himself he set
And by that art was sure
That he should get
A birth all clean and pure:
Proud flesh corrupts and stains the seed we sow;
He, planted by his Spirit, will spotless grow.

Virginity
His Father wanteth not,
Though glorious he
So great a Son hath got;
Wherefore Heaven orders that a virgin be
The Lily-Mother of his purity.

Upon the white
Church-wall oft-times have I
Observ’d the light,
Which darting from the sky
Pierc’d the unbroken glass and with it brought
The orient colours in the window wrought.

So from his sphere
The Lord of Light doth come,
And passing here
His crystal Mother’s womb
Leaves her entirely whole, yet brings away
Her perfect image, born a man to-day.

He who did wear
God’s radiant boundless form
Shrinks himself here
Into a simple worm.
Heaven moulded up in earth; Eternity
Grasp’d in a span of time doth bounded lie.

All Paradise
Collected in one bud
Doth sweetly rise
From its fair Virgin bed:
Omnipotence an Infant’s shape puts on,
Immensity becomes a Little One.

But only LOVE
Would not thus scanted be,
But stoutly strove
’Gainst this conspiracy
Of strange Epitomies, and did display
Itself more full on this contracting day.
JOSEPH BEAUMONT

47. SONNET XXV

_Incarnatio est maximum Dei donum._

Like as the fountain of all light created
Doth pour out streams of brightness undefin’d
Through all the conduits of transparent kind,
That heaven and air are both illuminated,
And yet his light is not thereby abated;
So God’s eternal bounty ever shin’d
The beams of being, moving, life, sense, mind;
And to all things himself communicated
But for the violent diffusive pleasure
Of goodness that left not till God had spent
Himself by giving us himself his treasure
In making man a God omnipotent.
How might this goodness draw ourselves above
Which drew down God with such attractive love!
JOSEPH BEAUMONT

48. ON THE NATIVITY OF OUR SAVIOUR

Why does the frowning winter smile
And check his fierce intent?
Why does he curb his ruffling powers,
As he for snow would sprinkle flowers?
There is a reason for this guile,
’Twas but to pay his rent:
It is the best that Huff-capp gives
At the great birth
Of publicke mirth,
And pay’d, no longer lives.

The Babe unveils His lovely face
To chase the shades away;
As soon as He casts up His eyes
A sudden brightness will arise
To gild the room does Him embrace;
In spite of clouds ’tis Day.
Lodg’d in His mother’s bosom He
May sleep in snow,
(Without cold tho’)
For down from cold is free.

Be not amazèd, souls, for this
Is but the half of Joy;
The Angels spare their nimble wings,
For now they’re but superfluous things;
To men, since Heaven descended is
Contracted in a Boy.
The Rose of Sharon’s budded now
And every thing
Portends a spring.
December snows adieu:

Adieu, but stay: a Subject prov’d a Ring,
Presents as great, as splendid, offering.
My breast’s the mine whence golden precepts rise,
Myrrh drops in bitter tears from virgin eyes.
Frankincense, praise’s furnish’d with desert
Offered upon no altar but my heart,
This reinvites my God unto my breast
And spreads the table for the welcome guest.
Tho’ gold, myrrh, frankincense, kings off’red Thee,
Thou’st frankincense, with gold and myrrh from me.
If these shrink in performance, at Thy eyes
I’ll trine my selfe and prove Thy sacrifice.
J. M.

49. THE SHEPHERDS

Sweet, harmless live{r}s! on whose holy leisure,
Waits innocence and pleasure;
Whose leaders to those pastures and clear springs
Were patriarchs, saints, and kings;
How happen’d it that in the dead of night
You only saw true light,
While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
Without one thought of day?
Was it because those first and blessèd swains
Were pilgrims on those plains
When they received the promise, for which now
’Twas there first shown to you?
’Tis true he loves that dust whereon they go
That serve him here below,
And therefore might for memory of those
His love there first disclose;
But wretched Salem, once his love, must now
No voice nor vision know;
Her stately piles with all their height and pride
Now languishèd and died,
And Bethlem’s humble cots above them stept
While all her seers slept;
Her cedar, fir, hewed stones, and gold were all
Polluted through their fall;
And those once sacred mansions were now
Mere emptiness and show.
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
Yet where the shepherds watch,
And God’s own lodging, though he could not lack,
To be a common rack.
No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury
In those thin cells could lie;
Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots,
Which never harboured plots;
Only content and love and humble joys
Lived there without all noise;
Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
Did in their bosoms play,
As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
What springs or shades to look;
But that was all; and now with gladsome care
They for the town prepare;
They leave their flock, and in a busy talk
All towards Bethlem walk,
To seek their soul’s great Shepherd, who was come
To bring all stragglers home;
Where now they find Him out, and, taught before,
That Lamb of God adore,
That Lamb, whose days great kings and prophets wished
And longed to see, but missed.
The first light they beheld was bright and gay,
And turned their night to day;
But to this later light they saw in Him
Their day was dark and dim.
HENRY VAUGHAN

50. CHRIST’S NATIVITY

Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!
It is the Birthday of thy King.
Awake! awake!
The sun doth shake
Light from his locks, and, all the way
Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake! awake! hark how th’ wood rings,
Winds whisper, and the busy springs
A concert make!
Awake! awake!
Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.

I would I were some bird or star,
Fluttering in woods, or lifted far
Above this inn,
And road of sin!
Then either star or bird should be
Shining or singing still to Thee.

I would I had in my best part
Fit rooms for Thee! or that my heart
Were so clean as
Thy manger was!
But I am all filth, and obscene:
Yet, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make clean.

Sweet Jesu! will then. Let no more
This leper haunt and soil Thy door!
Cure him, ease him,
O release him!
And let once more, by mystic birth,
The Lord of life be born in earth.
HENRY VAUGHAN

51. AND THEY LAID HIM IN A MANGER

Happy crib, that wert alone
To my God, bed, cradle, throne!
Whilst thy glorious vileness I
View with divine fancy’s eye,
Sordid filth seems all the cost,
State, and splendour, crowns do boast.
See heaven’s sacred majesty
Humbled beneath poverty;
Swaddled up in homely rags,
On a bed of straw and flags!
He whose hands the heavens display’d,
And the world’s foundations laid,
From the world almost exiled,
Of all ornaments despoil’d.
Perfumes bathe Him not, new-born,
Persian mantles not adorn;
Nor do the rich roofs look bright,
With the jasper’s orient light.
Where, O royal Infant, be
Th’ ensigns of Thy majesty;
Thy Sire’s equalizing state;
And Thy sceptre that rules fate?
Where’s Thy angel-guarded throne,
Whence Thy laws Thou didst make known—
Laws which heaven, earth, hell, obey’d?
These, ah! these aside He laid;
Would the emblem be—of pride
By humility outvied?
SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE

52. AT THE SIGN OF THE HEART

But art Thou come, dear Saviour? hath Thy love
Thus made Thee stoop, and leave Thy throne above

Thy lofty heavens, and thus Thyself to dress
In dust to visit mortals? Could no less

A condescension serve? and after all
The mean reception of a cratch and stall?

Dear Lord, I’ll fetch Thee thence! I have a room
(’Tis poor, but ’tis my best) if Thou wilt come

Within so small a cell, where I would fain
Mine and the world’s Redeemer entertain.

I mean, my Heart: ’tis sluttish, I confess,
And will not mend Thy lodging, Lord, unless

Thou send before Thy harbinger, I mean
Thy pure and purging Grace, to make it clean

And sweep its nasty corners; then I’ll try
To wash it also with a weeping eye.

And when ’tis swept and wash’d, I then will go
And, with Thy leave, I’ll fetch some flowers that grow

In Thine own garden, Faith and Love, to Thee;
With these I’ll dress it up, and these shall be

My rosemary and bays. Yet when my best
Is done, the room’s not fit for such a Guest.

But here’s the cure; Thy presence, Lord, alone
Will make a stall a Court, a cratch a Throne.
UNKNOWN

53. LODGED IN AN INN

Lodged in an inn
What Guest divine
There meekly lay,
The God of night and day!
In tax-time to pay sums
He comes,
Ev’n man’s price full:
From Satan’s rule
He will set free
Our poor humanity.

To us betake
Blest God! and make
Within our breast
Thy lodging-place and rest;
Thou Temples seek’st, not Inns:
Let sins
No more intrude
On th’ Inmate God,
Nor e’er deface
The ornaments of grace.
UNKNOWN

54. YET IF HIS MAJESTY OUR SOVEREIGN LORD

Yet if his majesty our sovereign Lord
Should of his own accord
Friendly himself invite,
And say, ‘I’ll be your guest to-morrow night,’
How should we stir ourselves, call and command
All hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand.’

‘Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall,
See they be fitted all;
Let there be room to eat,
And order taken that there want no meat.
See every sconce and candlestick made bright,
That without tapers they may give a light.

‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,
The daïs o’er the head,
The cushions in the chairs,
And all the candles lighted on the stairs?
Perfume the chambers, and in any case
Let each man give attendance in his place.’

Thus if the king were coming would we do,
And ’twere good reason too;
For ’tis a duteous thing
To show all honour to an earthly king,
And after all our travail and our cost,
So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.

But at the coming of the King of heaven,
All’s set at six and seven.
We wallow in our sin,
Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn,
We entertain Him always like a stranger,
And as at first still lodge Him in the manger.
UNKNOWN

55. AND ART THOU COME, BLEST BABE?

And art Thou come, blest Babe, and come to me?
Come down to teach me how to come to Thee?

Welcome, thrice welcome to my panting soul,
Which, as it loves, doth grieve that ’tis so foul.

The less ’tis fit for Thee come from above,
The more it needs Thee, and the more I love.
UNKNOWN

56. SONG OF THE ANGELS AT THE NATIVITY

While shepherds watch’d their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around.

‘Fear not,’ said he (for mighty dread
Had seized their troubled mind);
‘Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind.

’To you in David’s town this day
Is born of David’s line
The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord;
And this shall be the sign:—

‘The heavenly Babe you there shall find
To human view display’d,
All meanly wrapt in swathing-bands,
And in a manger laid.’

Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith
Appear’d a shining throng
Of angels praising God, and thus
Address’d their joyful song:—

‘All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace;
Good will henceforth from heaven to men
Begin, and never cease!’
NAHUM TATE

57. SHEPHERDS, REJOICE

Shepherds, rejoice, lift up your eyes,
And send your fears away;
News from the region of the skies!
Salvation’s born to-day.

‘Jesus, the God whom angels fear,
Comes down to dwell with you;
To-day He makes His entrance here,
But not as monarchs do.

‘No gold, nor purple swaddling bands,
Nor royal shining things;
A manger for His cradle stands
And holds the King of kings.

‘Go, shepherds, where the Infant lies,
And see His humble throne:—
With tears of joy in all your eyes
Go, shepherds, kiss the Son.’

Thus Gabriel sang: and straight around
The heavenly armies throng;
They tune their harps to lofty sound,
And thus conclude the song:

‘Glory to God that reigns above,
Let peace surround the earth;
Mortals shall know their Maker’s love,
At their Redeemer’s birth.’

Lord! and shall angels have their songs,
And men no tunes to raise?
O may we lose these useless tongues
When they forget to praise!

Glory to God that reigns above,
That pitied us forlorn!
We join to sing our Maker’s love—
For there’s a Saviour born.
ISAAC WATTS

58. A CRADLE SONG

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou’rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven He descended,
And became a Child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle;
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay:
When His birthplace was a stable,
And His softest bed was hay.

See the kinder shepherds round Him,
Telling wonders from the sky!
Where they sought Him, there they found Him,
With the virgin-mother by.

See the lovely Babe a-dressing;
Lovely Infant, how He smiled!
When He wept, the mother’s blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy Child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger
Where the hornèd oxen fed;
—Peace, my darling, here’s no danger;
Here’s no ox a-near thy bed.

Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,
Trust and love Him all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near Him,
See His face, and sing His praise.

I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother’s fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.
ISAAC WATTS

59. A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

Christians, awake, salute the happy morn
Whereon the Saviour of the world was born;
Rise to adore the Mystery of love,
Which hosts of angels chanted from above:
With them the joyful tidings first begun
Of God incarnate, and the Virgin’s Son:
Then to the watchful shepherds it was told,
Who heard th’ Angelic Herald’s voice—‘Behold!
I bring good tidings of a Saviour’s birth
To you, and all the nations upon earth;
This day hath God fulfill’d his promised word;
This day is born a Saviour, Christ, the Lord:
In David’s city, shepherds, ye shall find
The long-foretold Redeemer of mankind,
Wrapt up in swaddling clothes, the Babe divine
Lies in a manger; this shall be the sign.’
JOHN BYROM

60. A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

Hark, the glad sound! the Saviour comes,
The Saviour promised long;
Let every heart prepare a throne,
And every voice a song!

He comes, the prisoners to release
In Satan’s bondage held;
The gates of brass before Him burst,
The iron fetters yield.

He comes, the broken heart to bind,
The bleeding soul to cure,
And with the treasures of His grace
T’ enrich the humble poor.

Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace,
Thy welcome shall proclaim,
And heaven’s eternal arches ring
With Thy belovèd name.
PHILIP DODDRIDGE

61. A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

Hark! how all the welkin rings,
Glory to the King of kings!
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
Universal nature say,
Christ the Lord is born to-day.

Christ, by highest Heaven adored;
Christ, the Everlasting Lord;
Late in time behold Him come,
Offspring of a Virgin’s womb;
Veil’d in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail, th’ Incarnate Deity!
Pleased as man with men t’ appear,
Jesus, our Immanuel here!

Hail! the heavenly Prince of Peace!
Hail! the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Risen with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
CHARLES WESLEY

62. THE SHEPHERDS WENT THEIR HASTY WAY

The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed,
Where the virgin-mother lay;
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother’s song the virgin-mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother’s song,
Blest angels heralded the Saviour’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and peace on earth!

She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed;
And while she cried, The Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

Thou mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet music’s loudest note, the poet’s story,—
Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not War a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.

‘Tell this in some more courtly scene
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And therefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child.

‘A murderous fiend by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow’s toil had won;
Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

‘Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease;
I’m poor and of a low estate,
The mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.’
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

63. FROM OTTFRIED’S PARAPHRASE OF THE GOSPEL

She gave with joy her virgin breast;
She hid it not, she bared the breast
Which suckled that divinest Babe!
Blessed, blessed were the breasts
Which the Saviour Infant kiss’d;
And blessed, blessed was the mother
Who wrapp’d His limbs in swaddling clothes,
Singing placed Him on her lap,
Hung o’er Him with her looks of love,
And soothed Him with a lulling motion.
Blessed! for she shelter’d Him
From the damp and chilling air;
Blessed, blessed! for she lay
With such a Babe in one blest bed,
Close as babes and mothers lie!
Blessed, blessed evermore,
With her virgin lips she kiss’d,
With her arms, and to her breast,
She embraced the Babe divine,
Her Babe divine the virgin-mother!
There lives not on this ring of earth
A mortal that can sing her praise.
Mighty mother, virgin pure,
In the darkness and the night
For us she _bore_ the heavenly Lord.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

64. THE VIRGIN’S CRADLE HYMN

Copied from a print of the Virgin in a Catholic village in Germany.

Dormi, Jesu! mater ridet
Quae tam dulcem somnum videt,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
Si non dormis, mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat,
Blande, veni, somnule.

Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:
Mother sits beside thee smiling;
Sleep, my darling, tenderly;
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth:
Come, soft slumber, balmily!
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

65. BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING!

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning!
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid!
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,
Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining;
Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall;
Angels adore Him, in slumber reclining,
Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all.

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,
Odours of Edom and offerings divine?
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;
Vainly with gifts would His favour secure;
Richer by far is the heart’s adoration;
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning!
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid!
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,
Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!
REGINALD HEBER

66. THEY LEAVE THE LAND OF GEMS AND GOLD

They leave the land of gems and gold,
The shining portals of the East;
For Him, the woman’s Seed foretold,
They leave the revel and the feast.

To earth their sceptres they have cast,
And crowns by kings ancestral worn;
They track the lonely Syrian waste;
They kneel before the Babe new born.

O happy eyes that saw Him first;
O happy lips that kissed His feet;
Earth slakes at last her ancient thirst;
With Eden’s joy her pulses beat.

True kings are those who thus forsake
Their kingdoms for the Eternal King;
Serpent, her foot is on thy neck;
Herod, thou writhest, but canst not sting.

He, He is King, and He alone
Who lifts that infant hand to bless;
Who makes His mother’s knee His throne,
Yet rules the starry wilderness.
AUBREY DE VERE

67. CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR BELLS

1
The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
_Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind._

This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish’d no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controll’d me when a boy;
They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry, merry bells of Yule.

2
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For these that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
ALFRED TENNYSON
(from _In Memoriam_)

68. THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE

It was the calm and silent night:
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was Queen of earth and sea:
The clashing of continual wars
Was hushed throughout the wide domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars
Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

It was the calm and silent night:
The Senator of ancient Rome
Impatient urged his chariot’s flight,
From lordly revel rolling home:
Triumphal arches gleaming swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
Nought recked the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

Within that province far away,
Went plodding home the weary boor.
A streak of light before him lay,
Fallen through a half-shut stable door
Across his path:—he passed; for nought
Told what was going on within;
How bright the stars his only thought,
The air, how calm and cold and thin
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

Oh strange indifference! low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares—
The earth was still, it knew not why,
The world was listening unawares,
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world for ever.
To that still moment none would heed,
Man’s doom was linked, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

It is the calm and silent night—
A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals around, and smite
The darkness—charmed and holy now—
The day that erst no name had worn,
To it a blessed name is given,
For in that stable lay, new born,
The Peaceful Prince of earth and heaven—
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
ALFRED DOMETT

69. CHRIST WAS BORN ON CHRISTMAS DAY

Christ was born on Christmas day;
Wreathe the holly, twine the bay;
_Christus natus hodie_:
The Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary.

He is born to set us free,
He is born our Lord to be,
_Ex Maria Virgine_:
The God, the Lord, by all adored for ever.

Let the bright red berries glow
Everywhere in goodly show;
_Christus natus hodie_:
The Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary.

Christian men, rejoice and sing;
’Tis the birthday of a King,
_Ex Maria Virgine_:
The God, the Lord, by all adored for ever.

Night of sadness, Morn of gladness
Evermore:
Ever, ever, after many troubles sore,
Morn of gladness, evermore and evermore.

Midnight scarcely passed and over,
Drawing to this holy morn,
Very early, very early
Christ was born.

Sing out with bliss, His name is this—
Emmanuel,
As was foretold in days of old
By Gabriel.
J. M. NEALE

70. A CHRISTMAS CAROL