Of lively portraiture display'd, And, as I wake, sweet music breathe And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. MILTON. ODE ON THE NATIVITY. THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, That glorious form, that light unsufferable, He laid aside, and here with us to be, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. THE HYMN. Ir 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. 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 sovereign Lord was by. But peaceful was the night, His reign of peace upon the earth began; 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 shepherds on the lawn, Or e'er 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 The 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 aëry region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here it last fulfilling, She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight That with long beams the shamefaced 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 't is 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 concert to the 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 Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, 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. 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 inchain'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 centre to the surface 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 begin; 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, |