LATER POEMS AND CAROLS

RORATE Coeli desuper! Heavens, distil your balmy showers, For now is risen the bright daystar From the Rose Mary, flower of flowers; The clear sun, whom no cloud devours, Surmounting Phoebus in the east, Is comen of his heavenly towers; Et nobis Puer natus est. Archangels, angels, dominations, Thrones, potentates, and martyrs seir,[31] And all the heavenly operations, Star, planet, firmament, and sphere, Fire, earth, air, and water clear, To Him give loving, most and least, That come is in so meek maneir; Et nobis Puer natus est. Sinners, be glad, and penance do, And thank your Maker heartily, For He, that ye might not come to, To you is comen full humbly, Your soulës with His blood to buy, And loose you of the fiend’s arrest, And only of His own mercy; Pro nobis Puer natus est. Celestial fowlës in the air, Sing with your notes upon hight, In firthës and forests fair. Be mirthful now, at all your might, For passed is your dully night; Aurora has the cloudis perced, The sun is risen with gladsome light, Et nobis Puer natus est. Now spring up flowrës from the root, Revert you upward naturally, In honour of the blessed fruit That rose up from the Rose Mary; Lay out your leavës lustily, From dead take life now, at the least, In worship of that Prince worthy, Qui nobis Puer natus est. Sing heaven imperial, most of height, Regions of air make harmony; All fish in floud, and fowl of flight, Be mirthful and make melody; All Gloria in Excelsis cry, Heaven, earth, sea, man, bird, and beast, He that is crowned above the sky. Pro nobis Puer natus est. William Dunbar

AS I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear. Who scorched with exceeding heat such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames with what His tears were fed; Alas, quoth He, but newly born in fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I. My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns, Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals; The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls; For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood: With this He vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas day. Robert Southwell

BEHOLD a silly tender Babe, In freezing winter night, In homely manger trembling lies, Alas! a piteous sight. The inns are full, no man will yield This little Pilgrim bed; But forced He is with silly beasts In crib to shroud His head. Despise Him not for lying there, First what He is inquire; An orient pearl is often found In depth of dirty mire. Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish, Nor beast that by Him feed; Weigh not His mother’s poor attire, Nor Joseph’s simple weed. This stable is a prince’s court, This crib His chair of state; The beasts are parcel of His pomp, The wooden dish His plate. The persons in that poor attire His royal liveries wear; The Prince Himself is come from heaven This pomp is prizèd there. With joy approach, O Christian wight! Do homage to thy King; And highly praise this humble pomp Which He from heaven doth bring. Robert Southwell

COME to your heaven, you heavenly quires! Earth hath the heaven of your desires: Remove your dwelling to your God, A stall is now His best abode; Sith men their homage do deny, Come, angels, all their faults supply. His chilling cold doth heat require, Come, Seraphim, in lieu of fire; This little ark no cover hath, Let Cherubs’ wings His body swathe; Come, Raphael, this Babe must eat, Provide our little Tobie meat. Let Gabriel be now His groom, That first took up His earthly room; Let Michael stand in His defence, Whom love hath linked to feeble sense; Let Graces rock when He doth cry, And Angels sing His lullaby. The same you saw in heavenly seat Is He that now sucks Mary’s teat; Agnize[32] your King a mortal wight, His borrowed weeds lets[33] not your sight; Come, kiss the manger where He lies; That is your bliss above the skies. This little Babe so few days old Is come to rifle Satan’s fold, All hell doth at His presence quake, Though He Himself for cold do shake; For in this weak unarmèd wise The gates of hell He will surprise. With tears He fights and wins the field, His naked breast stands for a shield; His battering shot are babish cries; His arrows, looks of weeping eyes; His martial ensigns, cold and need; And feeble flesh His warrior’s steed. His camp is pitchèd in a stall, His bulwark but a broken wall, His crib His trench, hay-stalks His stakes, Of shepherds He His muster takes; And thus, as sure His foe to wound, The angels’ trumps alarum sound. My soul, with Christ join thou in fight; Stick to the tents that He hath pight; Within His crib is surest ward, This little Babe will be thy guard; If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy, Then flit not from this heavenly Boy. Robert Southwell

LET folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that Child, Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, Whose head no deed defiled. I praise Him most, I love Him best, All praise and love is His; While Him I love, in Him I live, And cannot live amiss. Love’s sweetest mark, laud’s highest theme, Man’s most desirèd light, To love Him life, to leave Him death, To live in Him delight. He mine by gift, I His by debt, Thus each to other due, First friend He was, best friend He is, All times will try Him true. Though young, yet wise; though small, yet strong; Though man, yet God He is; As wise He knows, as strong He can, As God He loves to bless. His knowledge rules, His strength defends, His love doth cherish all; His birth our joy, His life our light, His death our end of thrall. Alas! He weeps, He sighs, He pants, Yet doth His angels sing; Out of His tears, His sighs and throbs, Doth bud a joyful spring. Almighty Babe, whose tender arms Can force all foes to fly, Correct my faults, protect my life, Direct me when I die! Robert Southwell

IIMMENSITY, cloistered in thy dear womb, Now leaves His well-beloved imprisonment; There He hath made Himself to His intent, Weak enough now into our world to come: But oh! for thee, for Him, hath th’ inn no room? Yet lay Him in His stall, and from the orient Stars and wise men will travel, to prevent Th’ effect of Herod’s jealous general doom. See’st thou, my soul! with thy faith’s eyes, how He, Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie! Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high, That would have need to be pitied by thee? Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go, With His kind mother who partakes thy woe. John Donne

IMMORTAL Babe, who this dear day Didst change Thine heaven for our clay, And didst with flesh Thy godhead veil, Eternal Son of God, all hail! Shine, happy star; ye angels, sing Glory on high to heaven’s King: Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch, See heaven come down to Bethlehem’s cratch. Worship, ye sages of the east, The King of gods in meanness dressed, O blessèd maid, smile and adore The God thy womb and arms have bore. Star, angels, shepherds, and wise sages, Thou virgin glory of all ages, Restorèd frame of heaven and earth, Joy in your dear Redeemer’s birth! Joseph Hall

I SING the birth was born to-night, The Author both of life and light, The angel so did sound it: And like the ravished shepherds said, Who saw the light and were afraid, Yet searched, and true they found it. The Son of God, th’ Eternal King, That did us all salvation bring, And freed our soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven and earth did make, Was now laid in a manger. The Father’s wisdom willed it so, The Son’s obedience knew no No, Both wills were in one stature; And as that wisdom had decreed, The Word was now made flesh indeed, And took on Him our nature. What comfort by Him we do win, Who made Himself the price of sin To make us heirs of glory! To see this Babe, all innocence, A martyr born in our defence: Can man forget the story? Ben Jonson

SWEET music, sweeter far Than any song is sweet: Sweet music, heavenly rare, Mine ears, O peers, doth greet. You gentle flocks, whose fleeces pearled with dew Resemble heaven, whom golden drops make bright, Listen, O listen, now, O not to you Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night: But voices most divine Make blissful harmony: Voices that seem to shine, For what else clears the sky? Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see, The tunes divine, and so the singers be. Lo, how the firmament Within an azure fold The flock of stars hath pent, That we might them behold, Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light, Nor can their crystals such reflection give. What then doth make the element so bright? The heavens are come down upon earth to live: But hearken to the song, Glory to glory’s King, And peace all men among, These quiristers do sing. Angels they are, as also (shepherds) He Whom in our fear we do admire to see. Let not amazement blind Your souls, said he, annoy: To you and all mankind My message bringeth joy. For lo! the world’s great Shepherd now is born, A blessèd Babe, an Infant full of power: After long night uprisen is the morn, Renowning Bethlem in the Saviour. Sprung is the perfect day, By prophets seen afar: Sprung is the mirthful May, Which winter cannot mar. In David’s city doth this Sun appear Clouded in flesh, yet, shepherds, sit we here? Edmund Bolton

FAIR eastern star, that art ordained to run Before the sages, to the rising sun, Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud: Ye heavenly bodies glory to be bright, And are esteemed as ye are rich in light, But here on earth is taught a different way, Since under this low roof the Highest lay. Jerusalem erects her stately towers, Displays her windows and adorns her bowers; Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark, Let Herod’s palace still continue dark; Each school and synagogue thy force repels, There Pride enthroned in misty error dwells: The temple, where the priests maintain their quire, Shall taste no beam of thy celestial fire, While this weak cottage all thy splendour takes: A joyful gate of every chink it makes. Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair, No king exalted in a stately chair, Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled, But straw and hay enwrap a speechless Child. Yet Sabae’s lords before this Babe unfold Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh, and gold. The crib becomes an altar: therefore dies No ox nor sheep; for in their fodder lies The Prince of Peace, who, thankful for His bed, Destroys those rites in which their blood was shed: The quintessence of earth He takes, and fees, And precious gums distilled from weeping trees; Rich metals and sweet odours now declare The glorious blessings which His laws prepare, To clear us from the base and loathsome flood Of sense, and make us fit for angels’ food, Who lift to God for us the holy smoke Of fervent prayers with which we Him invoke, And try our actions in the searching fire, By which the seraphims our lips inspire: No muddy dross pure minerals shall infect, We shall exhale our vapours up direct: No storm shall cross, nor glittering lights deface Perpetual sighs which seek a happy place. Sir John Beaumont

RUN, shepherds, run, where Bethlehem blest appears, We bring the best of news; be not dismayed; A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven’s rolling height this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid A weakling did Him bear, who all upbears; There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres: Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize His birth. This is that night—no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is: In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth! Thus singing, through the air the angels swam, And cope of stars re-echoèd the same. William Drummond

O THAN the fairest day, thrice fairer night! Night to blest days in which a sun doth rise, Of which that golden eye which clears the skies Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light! And blessèd ye, in silly pastor’s sight, Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies That heaven-sent Youngling, holy-maid-born Wight, Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies! Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread, Though withered—blessèd grass that hath the grace To deck and be a carpet to that place! Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed, Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed on knees, And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees. William Drummond

SWEET baby, sleep! What ails my dear? What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep! Thou blessèd soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy Father dear; His holy spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep! Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a King, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear; For whosoever thee offends By thy protector threatened are, And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. When God with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight: Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. A little Infant once was He, And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His virgin-mother’s knee, That power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such-like swaddling clothes as these. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed; Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee; And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease securèd be. My baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv’st it not. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. George Wither

AS on the night before this happy morn, A blessèd angel unto shepherds told Where (in a stable) He was poorly born, Whom nor the earth nor heaven of heavens can hold: Thro’ Bethlehem rung This news at their return; Yea, angels sung That God with us was born; And they made mirth because we should not mourn. Their angel carol sing we, then, To God on high all glory be, For peace on earth bestoweth He, And sheweth favour unto men. This favour Christ vouchsafèd for our sake; To buy us thrones, He in a manger lay; Our weakness took, that we His strength might take; And was disrobed that He might us array; Our flesh He wore, Our sin to wear away; Our curse He bore, That we escape it may; And wept for us, that we might sing for aye. With angels therefore, sing again, To God on high all glory be, For peace on earth bestoweth He, And sheweth favour unto men. Giles Fletcher

WHO can forget—never to be forgot— The time, that all the world in slumber lies, When, like the stars, the singing angels shot To earth, and heaven awakèd all his eyes To see another sun at midnight rise On earth? Was never sight of pareil fame, For God before man like Himself did frame, But God Himself now like a mortal man became. A Child He was, and had not learnt to speak, That with His word the world before did make; His mother’s arms Him bore, He was so weak, That with one hand the vaults of heaven could shake, See how small room my infant Lord doth take, Whom all the world is not enough to hold! Who of His years, or of His age hath told? Never such age so young, never a child so old. And yet but newly He was infanted, And yet already He was sought to die; Yet scarcely born, already banishèd; Not able yet to go, and forced to fly: But scarcely fled away, when by and by The tyrant’s sword with blood is all defiled, And Rachel, for her sons, with fury wild, Cries, ‘O thou cruel king, and O my sweetest child!’ Egypt His nurse became, where Nilus springs, Who, straight to entertain the rising sun, The hasty harvest in his bosom brings; But now for drought the fields were all undone, And now with waters all is overrun: So fast the Cynthian mountains poured their snow, When once they felt the sun so near them glow, That Nilus Egypt lost, and to a sea did grow. 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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

LODGDED 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

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

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

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

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

HUSHG, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

IT chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary— ‘Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave, And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery. How long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again? Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain, Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery.’ Then arose a joyous clamour from the wildfowl on the mere, Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing, And a voice within cried—‘Listen!—Christmas carols even here! Though thou be dumb, yet o’er their work the stars and snows are singing. Blind! I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through With the thunder of my judgements even now are ringing; Do thou fulfil thy work, but as yon wildfowl do, Thou wilt hear no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing.’ Charles Kingsley

IN the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago. Our God, heaven cannot hold Him, Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away When He comes to reign: In the bleak mid-winter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty Jesus Christ. Enough for Him whom cherubim Worship night and day, A breastful of milk And a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him whom angels Fall down before, The ox and ass and camel Which adore. Angels and archangels May have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim Thronged the air: But only His mother, In her maiden bliss, Worshipped the Belovèd With a kiss. What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, If I were a wise man I would do my part,— Yet what I can I give Him: Give my heart. Christina Rossetti

TO Bethlem did they go, the shepherds three; To Bethlem did they go, to see whe’r it were so or no, Whether Christ were born or no To set men free. Masters, in this hall, Hear ye news to-day Brought over sea, And ever I you pray, Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Sing we clear! Holpen are all folk on earth, Born is God’s Son so dear. Going over the hills Through the milk-white snow, Heard I ewes bleat While the wind did blow. Nowell, &c. Shepherds many an one Sat among the sheep; No man spake more word Than they had been asleep. Nowell, &c. Quoth I, ‘Fellows mine, Why this guise sit ye? Making but dull cheer, Shepherds though ye be?’ Nowell, &c. ‘Shepherds should of right Leap and dance and sing; Thus to see ye sit Is a right strange thing.’ Nowell, &c. Quoth these fellows then, ‘To Bethlem town we go, To see a mighty Lord Lie in manger low.’ Nowell, &c. ‘How name ye this Lord, Shepherds?’ then said I. ‘Very God,’ they said, ‘Come from heaven high.’ Nowell, &c. Then to Bethlem town We went two and two, And in a sorry place Heard the oxen low. Nowell, &c. Therein did we see A sweet and goodly May, And a fair old man; Upon the straw she lay. Nowell, &c. And a little Child On her arm had she; ‘Wot ye who This is?’ Said the hinds to me. Nowell, &c. Ox and ass Him know, Kneeling on their knee: Wondrous joy had I This little Babe to see. Nowell, &c. This is Christ the Lord, Masters, be ye glad! Christmas is come in, And no folk should be sad. Nowell, &c. William Morris

OUTLANDERS, whence come ye last? The snow in the street and the wind on the door. Through what green sea and great have ye passed? Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. From far away, O masters mine, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. We come to bear you goodly wine: Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. From far away we come to you, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. To tell of great tidings strange and true: Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. News, news of the Trinity, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. And Mary and Joseph from over the sea: Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. For as we wandered far and wide, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. What hap do ye deem there should us betide? Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. Under a bent when the night was deep, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. There lay three shepherds tending their sheep: Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. ‘O ye shepherds, what have ye seen, The snow in the street and the wind on the door, To slay your sorrow and heal your teen?’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. ‘In an ox-stall this night we saw, The snow in the street and the wind on the door, A Babe and a maid without a flaw.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. ‘There was an old man there beside, The snow in the street and the wind on the door, His hair was white and his hood was wide.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. ‘And as we gazed this thing upon, The snow in the street and the wind on the door, Those twain knelt down to the Little One.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. ‘And a marvellous song we straight did hear, The snow in the street and the wind on the door, That slew our sorrow and healed our care.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. News of a fair and a marvellous thing, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing! Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor. William Morris

IT is the longest night in all the year, Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born; Six hours ago I came and sat down here, And ponder’d sadly, wearied and forlorn. The winter wind that pass’d the chapel door, Sang out a moody tune, that went right well With mine own thoughts: I look’d down on the floor, Between my feet, until I heard a bell Sound a long way off through the forest deep, And toll on steadily; a drowsiness Came on me, so that I fell half asleep, As I sat there not moving: less and less I saw the melted snow that hung in beads Upon my steel shoes; less and less I saw Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds: Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground, I thought; O Galahad! the days go by, Stop and cast up now that which you have found, So sorely you have wrought and painfully. Night after night your horse treads down alone The sere damp fern, night after night you sit Holding the bridle like a man of stone, Dismal, unfriended, what thing comes of it. And what if Palomydes also ride, And over many a mountain and bare heath Follow the questing beast with none beside? Is he not able still to hold his breath With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale With weary striving, to seem best of all To her, ‘as she is best,’ he saith? to fail Is nothing to him, he can never fall. For unto such a man love-sorrow is So dear a thing unto his constant heart, That even if he never win one kiss, Or touch from Iseult, it will never part. And he will never know her to be worse Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: Good knight, and faithful, you have ’scaped the curse In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss. Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out, Can he not think of Guenevere’s arms, round, Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout Till all the place grows joyful with the sound? And when he lists can often see her face, And think, ‘Next month I kiss you, or next week, And still you think of me’: therefore the place Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek. But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow, When all unkindly with the shifting wind, The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know Indeed that they will say: ‘This Galahad If he had lived had been a right good knight; Ah! poor chaste body!’ but they will be glad, Not most alone, but all, when in their sight That very evening in their scarlet sleeves The gay-dress’d minstrels sing; no maid will talk Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves, Grown big upon the bushes of the walk, East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day! Before the trees by autumn were well bared, I saw a damozel with gentle play, Within that very walk say last farewell To her dear knight, just riding out to find (Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal, And their last kisses sunk into my mind, Yea, for she stood lean’d forward on his breast, Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand, That it might well be kiss’d, she held and press’d Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann’d By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind, Till Mador de la Porte a-going by, And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined, And parted like a dream. In this way I, With steeply face bent to the chapel floor, Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly A sharp bell rang from close beside the door, And I leapt up when something pass’d me by, Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind I stagger’d after, a great sense of awe At every step kept gathering on my mind, Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw One sitting on the altar as a throne, Whose face no man could say he did not know, And though the bell still rang, he sat alone, With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow. Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt, Not as one kneels in church when mass is said, But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt The first time what a thing was perfect dread. But mightily the gentle voice came down: ‘Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad, Good knight of God, for you will see no frown Upon my face; I came to make you glad. ‘For that you say that you are all alone, I will be with you always, and fear not You are uncared for, though no maiden moan Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot, ‘He in good time shall be my servant too, Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight, And who has loved him alway, yea, and who Still trusts him alway, though in all men’s sight, ‘He is just what you know, O Galahad, This love is happy even as you say, But would you for a little time be glad, To make me sorry long day after day? ‘Her warm arms round his neck half throttle Me, The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead, Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally Will Launcelot at one time hang his head; ‘Yea, old and shrivell’d he shall win my love. Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul! Not always is he able, son, to move His love, and do it honour: needs must roll ‘The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust, And then ’tis weary work; he strives beside Seem better than he is, so that his trust Is always on what chances may betide; ‘And so he wears away, my servant, too, When all these things are gone, and wretchedly He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who Is no care now to Palomydes: see, ‘O good son Galahad, upon this day, Now even, all these things are on your side, But these you fight not for; look up, I say, And see how I can love you, for no pride ‘Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down. See now you have ME always; following That holy vision, Galahad, go on, Until at last you come to Me to sing ‘In heaven always, and to walk around The garden where I am’: he ceased, my face And wretched body fell upon the ground; And when I look’d again, the holy place Was empty; but right so the bell again Came to the chapel-door, there entered Two angels first, in white, without a stain, And scarlet wings, then after them a bed, Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath The very altar-step, and while for fear I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath, Those holy ladies gently came a-near, And quite unarm’d me, saying: ‘Galahad, Rest here a while and sleep, and take no thought Of any other thing than being glad; Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought, ‘Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here.’ Right so they went away, and I, being weary, Slept long and dream’d of heaven: the bell comes near, I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere!

An Angel. O servant of the high God, Galahad! Rise and be arm’d, the Sangreal is gone forth Through the great forest, and you must be had Unto the sea that lieth on the north: There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein The spindles of King Solomon are laid, And the sword that no man draweth without sin, But if he be most pure: and there is stay’d, Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet In some short space upon that ship: first, though, Will come here presently that lady sweet, Sister of Percival, whom you well know, And with her Bors and Percival: stand now, These ladies will to arm you. First Lady [putting on the hauberke]. Galahad, That I may stand so close beneath your brow, I, Margaret of Antioch, am glad. Second Lady [girding him with the sword]. That I may stand and touch you with my hand, O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad. Third Lady [buckling on the spurs]. That I may kneel while up above you stand, And gaze at me, O holy Galahad, I, Lucy, am most glad. Fourth Lady [putting on the basnet]. O gentle knight, That you bow down to us in reverence, We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight Must needs fall trembling. Angel [putting on the crossed surcoat]. Galahad, we go hence, For here, amid the straying of the snow, Come Percival’s sister, Bors, and Percival. [The four Ladies carry out the bed, and all go but Galahad.] Galahad. How still and quiet everything seems now! They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall. [Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and his Sister.] Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save! A many marvels have been here to-night; Tell me what news of Launcelot you have, And has God’s body ever been in sight? Sir Bors. Why, as for seeing that same holy thing, As we were riding slowly side by side, An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide, With many-colour’d raiment, but far off, And so pass’d quickly—from the court nought good; Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff Kept us all merry, in a little wood Was found all hack’d and dead; Sir Lionel And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest, Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well Your father Launcelot, at the king’s behest Went out to seek him, but was almost slain, Perhaps is dead now; everywhere The knights come foil’d from the great quest; in vain, In vain they struggle for the vision fair. William Morris

A SHAPE, like folded light, embodied air, Yet wreath’d with flesh and warm; All that of heaven is feminine and fair, Moulded in visible form. She stood, the Lady Schechinah of earth, A chancel for the sky; Where woke, to breath and beauty, God’s own birth For men to see Him by. Round her, too pure to mingle with the day, Light, that was life, abode; Folded within her fibres meekly lay The link of boundless God. So link’d, so blent, that when, with pulse fulfill’d, Moved but that infant hand, Far, far away, His conscious Godhead thrill’d, And stars might understand. Lo! where they pause, with intergathering rest, The Threefold and the One! And lo! He binds them to her orient breast, His Manhood girded on. The Zone, where two glad worlds for ever meet, Beneath that bosom ran: Deep in that womb, the conquering Paraclete Smote Godhead on to man! Sole scene among the stars, where, yearning, glide The Threefold and the One: Her God upon her lap, the Virgin-Bride, Her Awful Child, her Son. R. S. Hawker

WAES-HAEL for knight and dame! O! merry be their dole; Drink-hael! in Jesu’s name We fill the tawny bowl; But cover down the curving crest, Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast. Waes-hael! yet lift no lid: Drain ye the reeds for wine. Drink-hael! the milk was hid That soothed that Babe divine; Hushed, as this hollow channel flows, He drew the balsam from the rose. Waes-hael! thus glowed the breast Where a God yearned to cling; Drink-hael! so Jesu pressed Life from its mystic spring; Then hush, and bend in reverent sign, And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine. Waes-hael! in shadowy scene, Lo! Christmas children we; Drink-hael! behold we lean At a far Mother’s knee; To dream, that thus her bosom smiled, And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child. R. S. Hawker

SAY, did his Sisters wonder what could Joseph see In a mild, silent little Maid like thee? And was it awful, in that narrow house, With God for Babe and Spouse? Nay, like thy simple, female sort, each one Apt to find Him in Husband and in Son, Nothing to thee came strange in this. Thy wonder was but wondrous bliss: Wondrous, for, though True Virgin lives not but does know, (Howbeit none ever yet confess’d,) That God lies really in her breast, Of thine He made His special nest! And so All mothers worship little feet, And kiss the very ground they’ve trod; But, ah, thy little Baby sweet Who was indeed thy God. Coventry Patmore

WILD air, world-mothering air, Nestling me everywhere, That each eyelash or hair Girdles; goes home betwixt The fleeciest, frailest-flixed Snow-flake; that’s fairly mixed With, riddles, and is rife In every least thing’s life; This needful, never spent And nursing element; My more than meat and drink, My meal at every wink; This air, which, by life’s law, My lung must draw and draw Now, but to breathe its praise,— Minds me in many ways Of her who not only Gave God’s infinity, Dwindled to infancy, Welcome in womb and breast, Birth, milk, and all the rest, But mothers each new grace That does now reach our race, Mary Immaculate, Merely a woman, yet Whose presence, power is Great as no goddess’s Was deemèd, dreamèd; who This one work has to do— Let all God’s glory through, God’s glory, which would go Through her and from her flow Off, and no way but so. I say that we are wound With mercy round and round As if with air: the same Is Mary, more by name, She, wild web, wondrous robe, Mantles the guilty globe, Since God has let dispense Her prayers His providence. Nay, more than almoner, The sweet alms’ self is her And men are meant to share Her life as life does air. If I have understood, She holds high motherhood Towards all our ghostly good And plays in grace her part About man’s beating heart, Laying, like air’s fine flood, The death-dance in his blood; Yet no part but what will Be Christ our Saviour still. Of her flesh he took flesh: He does take, fresh and fresh, Though much the mystery how, Not flesh but spirit now And wakes, O marvellous! New Nazareths in us, Where she shall yet conceive Him, morning, noon, and eve; New Bethlems, and he born There, evening, noon and morn— Bethlem or Nazareth, Men here may draw like breath More Christ, and baffle death; Who, born so, comes to be New self, and nobler me In each one, and each one More makes, when all is done, Both God’s and Mary’s son. Again, look overhead How air is azurèd. O how! nay do but stand Where you can lift your hand Skywards: rich, rich it laps Round the four finger-gaps. Yet such a sapphire-shot, Charged, steepèd sky will not Stain light. Yea, mark you this: It does no prejudice. The glass-blue days are those When every colour glows, Each shape and shadow shows. Blue be it: this blue heaven The seven or seven times seven Hued sunbeam will transmit Perfect, not alter it. Or if there does some soft On things aloof, aloft, Bloom breathe, that one breath more Earth is the fairer for. Whereas did air not make This bath of blue and slake His fire, the sun would shake, A blear and blinding ball With blackness bound, and all The thick stars round him roll Flashing like flecks of coal, Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt In grimy vasty vault. So God was God of old; A mother came to mould Those limbs like ours which are What must make our daystar Much dearer to mankind: Whose glory bare would blind Or less would win man’s mind. Through her we may see Him Made sweeter, not made dim, And her hand leaves His light Sifted to suit our sight. Be thou, then, O thou dear Mother, my atmosphere; My happier world wherein To wend and meet no sin; Above me, round me lie Fronting my froward eye With sweet and scarless sky; Stir in my ears, speak there Of God’s love, O live air, Of patience, penance, prayer; World-mothering air, air wild, Wound with thee, in thee isled, Fold home, fast fold thy child. Gerard Hopkins