On the morning of Christ’s nativity

Engraving of an angle in the clouds

THE HYMN

It was the winter wild,

While the Heaven-born child

All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies;

Nature in awe to him

Had doffed 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 wooes 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.

III

But he, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;

She, crowned 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 an 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 hookèd chariot stood,

Unstained with hostile blood;

The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;

And kings sat still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovereign 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 kissed,

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,

Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,

Bending one way their precious influence,

And will not take their flight

For all the morning light,

Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;

But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

VII

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 enlightened world no more should need;

He saw a greater Sun appear

Than his bright throne or burning axle-tree could bear.

Engraving of shepherds observing cherubim and seraphim

VIII

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 stringèd noise,

As all their souls in blissful rapture took;

The air, such pleasure loth to lose,

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

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 shame-faced Night arrayed;

The helmèd Cherubim,

And sworded Seraphim,

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,

Harping in loud and solemn choir,

With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s new-born Heir.

XII

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.

XIII

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 the angelic symphony.

XIV

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 mold;

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,

Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,

Mercy will sit between,

Throned 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.

XVI

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 ychained in sleep,

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

XVII

With such a horrid clang

As on Mount Sinai rang,

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake;

The agèd Earth aghast,

With terror of that blast,

Shall from the surface to the center shake;

When at the world’s last session,

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

XVIII

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 usurpèd sway,

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,

Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

Engraving of Apollo leaving his shrine

XIX

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 breathèd 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

Edged with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

With flower-inwoven tresses torn

The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

XXI

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.

XXII

Peor and Baälim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-battered god of Palestine;

And moonèd Ashtaroth,

Heaven’s queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with taper’s holy shine;

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn;

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

XXIII

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.

XXIV

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;

Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest,

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud!

In vain with timbreled anthems dark

The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.

XXV

He feels from Judah’s land

The dreaded infant’s hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine,

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in His swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.

Engraving of angles in a stable

XXVI

So when the sun in bed,

Curtained with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave;

And the yellow-skirted fays

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

XXVII

But see, the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is our tedious song should here have ending;

Heaven’s youngest-teemèd star

Hath fixed her polished car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;

And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

Engraving of Baby Jesus