LATER POEMS AND CAROLS (continued 2)

CONSIDER, O my soul, what morn is this! Whereon the eternal Lord of all things made For us, poor mortals, and our endless bliss, Came down from heaven; and, in a manger laid, The first, rich, offerings of our ransom paid: Consider, O my soul, what morn is this! Consider what estate of fearful woe Had then been ours, had He refused this birth; From sin to sin tossed vainly to and fro, Hell’s playthings, o’er a doomed and helpless earth! Had He from us withheld His priceless worth, Consider man’s estate of fearful woe! Consider to what joys He bids thee rise, Who comes, Himself, life’s bitter cup to drain! Ah! look on this sweet Child, whose innocent eyes, Ere all be done, shall close in mortal pain, That thou at last Love’s Kingdom may’st attain: Consider to what joys He bids thee rise! Consider all this wonder, O my soul: And in thine inmost shrine make music sweet! Yea, let the world, from furthest pole to pole, Join in thy praises this dread birth to greet! Kneeling to kiss thy Saviour’s infant feet! Consider all this wonder, O my soul! Selwyn Image

1 WAKE, what unusual light doth greet The early dusk of this our street? 2 It is the Lord! it is the Christ! That hath the will of God sufficed; That ere the day is born anew, Himself is born a Child for you. Chorus. The harp, the viol, and the lute, To strike a praise unto our God! Bring here the reeds! bring here the flute! Wake summer from the winter’s sod! Oh, what a feast of feasts is given To His poor servants, by the King of Heaven! 3 Where is the Lord? 2Here is the Lord, At thine own door. ’Tis He, the Word; He, at whose face, the eternal speed Of orb on orb was changed to song. Shall He the sound of viols heed, Whose ears have heard so high a throng? Shall He regard the citherns strung To whom the morning stars have sung? Chorus. Then wake, my heart, and sweep the strings, The seven in the Lyre of Life! Instead of lutes, the spirit sings; With praise its quiet house is rife! Oh, what a feast of feasts is given To His poor servants, by the King of Heaven! 4 Who is the Lord? 2He is the Lord, That Light of light, that Chief of all! 1 Who is the Lord? 2He is the Lord, An outcast lying in a stall; For in the inn no room is left, While the unworthy feast instead; He of all welcome is bereft, And hath not where to lay His head. 1 What fitter place could I prepare, What better cradle, say, is there Than this my heart, if that were fair? 2 Thou hast divined! A nobler part In man or angel, or of earth, or skies, There is not, than a broken heart; The which thy God may ne’er despise. THE HYMN Chorus. Lord, in my heart a little child, Now that the snows beat far and wide, While ever wails the tempest wild, Good Lord abide. Nor go Thou if the summer comes, Nor if the summer days depart; But chiefly make Thy home of homes, Lord, in my heart. Herbert P. Horne

THE sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally oft the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee. They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about. All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head. We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard; So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye. The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every ’long-shore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about. The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer; For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born. O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves. And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day. They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. ‘All hands to loose topgallant sails,’ I heard the captain call. ‘By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,’ our first mate, Jackson, cried. ... ‘It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,’ he replied. She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, And the ship smelt up to windward, just as though she understood. As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light. And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old. R. L. Stevenson

GIVEN, not lent, And not withdrawn—once sent, This Infant of mankind, this One, Is still the little welcome Son. New every year, New born and newly dear, He comes with tidings and a song, The ages long, the ages long; Even as the cold Keen winter grows not cold As childhood is so fresh, foreseen, And spring in the familiar green. Sudden as sweet Come the expected feet. All joy is young, and new all art, And He, too, whom we have by heart. Alice Meynell

A FROSTY Christmas Eve when the stars were shining Fared I forth alone where westward falls the hill, And from many a village in the water’d valley Distant music reach’d me peals of bells aringing: The constellated sounds ran sprinkling on earth’s floor As the dark vault above with stars was spangled o’er. Then sped my thought to keep that first Christmas of all When the shepherds watching by their folds ere the dawn Heard music in the fields and marvelling could not tell Whether it were angels or the bright stars singing. Now blessed be the tow’rs that crown England so fair That stand up strong in prayer unto God for our souls: Blessed be their founders (said I) an’ our country folk Who are ringing for Christ in the belfries to-night With arms lifted to clutch the rattling ropes that race Into the dark above and the mad romping din. But to me heard afar it was starry music Angels’ song, comforting as the comfort of Christ When He spake tenderly to His sorrowful flock: The old words came to me by the riches of time Mellow’d and transfigured as I stood on the hill Heark’ning in the aspect of th’ eternal silence. Robert Bridges

I ON a winter’s night long time ago (The bells ring loud and the bells ring low), When high howled wind, and down fell snow (Carillon, Carilla). Saint Joseph he and Nostre Dame, Riding on an ass, full weary came From Nazareth into Bethlehem. And the small child Jesus smile on you. II And Bethlehem inn they stood before (The bells ring less and the bells ring more), The landlord bade them begone from his door (Carillon, Carilla). ‘Poor folk’ (says he), ‘must lie where they may, For the Duke of Jewry comes this way, With all his train on a Christmas Day.’ And the small child Jesus smile on you. III Poor folk that may my carol hear (The bells ring single and the bells ring clear), See! God’s one child had hardest cheer! (Carillon, Carilla.) Men grown hard on a Christmas morn; The dumb beast by and a babe forlorn. It was very, very cold when our Lord was born. And the small child Jesus smile on you. IV Now these were Jews as Jews must be (The bells ring merry and the bells ring free). But Christian men in a band are we (Carillon, Carilla). Empty we go, and ill-bedight, Singing Noël on a winter’s night. Give us to sup by the warm firelight, And the small child Jesus smile on you. Hilaire Belloc

THE Christ-child lay on Mary’s lap, His hair was like a light. (O weary, weary were the world, But here is all aright.) The Christ-child lay on Mary’s breast, His hair was like a star. (O stern and cunning are the kings, But here the true hearts are.) The Christ-child lay on Mary’s heart, His hair was like a fire. (O weary, weary is the world, But here the world’s desire.) The Christ-child stood at Mary’s knee, His hair was like a crown, And all the flowers looked up at him, And all the stars looked down. G. K. Chesterton

WHERE Mary keeps her court With the humble and the high, The little dog has sport For he is also by. The creatures of the earth They have great joy and mirth On the night of the Great Birth. The hedgehog and the hare Are of that Birth aware, Their timid footsteps go, Quick, furtive, over the snow, They come thro’ the cold The young Child to behold, In the stable bare. They have no fear there, No hurt and no annoy, But great bliss and joy With the Baby Boy, In that safe stable’s shade With none to make afraid, To kill or to destroy. The lamb in his white fleece Plays with the wolf in peace, The leopard lies down with the kid, The ox and the ass they bid The lion to share their straw; All creatures tame or wild Are there with the Little Child; The ox says ‘moo’ and the ass ‘hee-haw’. R. L. Gales

OH! what great thing is done to-night, Or what good news has sped? What ails the blessèd Saints in heaven, They cannot rest in bed? But up and down so ceaselessly They go in joy and dread. The gate-house all is lighted up, Wherein Saint Peter dwells; Saint James looks out of his great house, All made of oyster shells; In his good hostel by the flood Saint Julian rings the bells. Saint Catherine wears her silver shoes And pearl-besprinkled gown; Saint Barbara from her high, high tower Upon the earth looks down; Saint Christopher bends wondering eyes On David’s distant town. The Angels’ chanting sounds afar An ancient waterfall; They do not listen to their strain, Nor answer to their call; Their thoughts are on the little earth, Not in the heavenly hall. For there they see a lovelier thing That is beyond the sky; They see the little Lord of Heaven Upon His hard bed lie; Their hearts are filled with wonder for The Change of the Most High. R. L. Gales

THE Ox said to the Ass, said he, all on a Christmas night: ‘Do you hear the pipe of the shepherds a-whistling over the hill? That is the angels’ music they play for their delight, “Glory to God in the highest and peace upon earth, goodwill”.... Nowell, nowell, my masters, God lieth low in stall, And the poor labouring Ox was here before you all.’ The Ass said to the Ox, said he, all on a Christmas day: ‘Do you hear the golden bridles come clinking out of the east? Those are the three wise Mages that ride from far away To Bethlehem in Jewry to have their lore increased.... Nowell, nowell, my masters, God lieth low in stall, And the poor, foolish Ass was here before you all.’ Dorothy L. Sayers

OH, brother Juniper, come out and play: Men should be gay on this Holy-Day. Lo, brother Sun laughing there in the sky, All so merrily, clear and high. Blithe and merry are men and beasts all In field and stall, in church and in hall. Oh, little brother, let the fat men sneer, We have good cheer this day o’ the year. Oh, brother Juniper, leave ’em their scorn: Christ is born to us this bright morn. J. D. C. Pellow

CHRISTMAS Eve, and twelve of the clock. ‘Now they are all on their knees,’ An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease. We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kneeling then. So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! Yet, I feel, If some one said on Christmas Eve, ‘Come; see the oxen kneel ‘In the lonely barton by yonder coomb Our childhood used to know,’ I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so. Thomas Hardy

HOW far is it to Bethlehem? Not very far. Shall we find the stable-room Lit by a star? Can we see the little Child, Is he within? If we lift the wooden latch May we go in? May we stroke the creatures there, Ox, ass, or sheep? May we peep like them and see Jesus asleep? If we touch his tiny hand Will he awake? Will he know we’ve come so far Just for his sake? Great kings have precious gifts, And we have nought, Little smiles and little tears Are all we brought. For all weary children Mary must weep. Here, on his bed of straw Sleep, children, sleep. God in his mother’s arms, Babes in the byre, Sleep, as they sleep who find Their heart’s desire. Frances Chesterton

WITH a long train of camels following them, Laden with myrrh and frankincense and gold, Balthasar, Gaspar, Melchior the old, Draw near a stable door in Bethlehem, And, bending down, each king his diadem Lays at the feet of Him, whom they behold Wrapped round in swaddling clothes against the cold: The Babe that is a prince of Jesse’s stem. And the mild Mother sees with wondering eyes The strange, bright gems on their uplifted hands, Their jewelled swords, and raiment of rich fur. And, drawing near beneath the starlit skies, A train of camels bringing from strange lands Tribute of gold and frankincense and myrrh. Francis Keppel