Hymn On The Morning Of Christ’s Nativity
It
was
the
Winter
wilde,
While
the
Heav’n-born-childe,
All
meanly
wrapt
in
the
rude
manger
lies;
Nature
in
aw
to
him
Had
doff’t
her
gawdy
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
woo’s
the
gentle
Air
To
hide
her
guilty
front
with
innocent
Snow,
And
on
her
naked
shame,
Pollute
with
sinfull
blame,
The
Saintly
Vail
of
Maiden
white
to
throw,
Confounded,
that
her
Makers
eyes
Should
look
so
neer
upon
her
foul
deformities.
But
he
her
fears
to
cease,
Sent
down
the
meek-eyd
Peace,
She
crown’d
with
Olive
green,
came
softly
sliding
Down
through
the
turning
sphear
His
ready
Harbinger,
With
Turtle
wing
the
amorous
clouds
dividing,
And
waving
wide
her
mirtle
wand,
She
strikes
a
universall
Peace
through
Sea
and
Land.
No
War,
or
Battails
sound
Was
heard
the
World
around,
The
idle
spear
and
shield
were
high
up
hung;
The
hookèd
Chariot
stood
Unstain’d
with
hostile
blood,
The
Trumpet
spake
not
to
the
armèd
throng,
And
Kings
sate
still
with
awfull
eye,
As
if
they
surely
knew
their
sovran
Lord
was
by.
But
peacefull
was
the
night
Wherin
the
Prince
of
light
His
raign
of
peace
upon
the
earth
began:
The
Windes
with
wonder
whist,
Smoothly
the
waters
kist,
Whispering
new
joyes
to
the
milde
Ocean,
Who
now
hath
quite
forgot
to
rave,
While
Birds
of
Calm
sit
brooding
on
the
charmeèd
wave.
The
Stars
with
deep
amaze
Stand
fixt
in
stedfast
gaze,
Bending
one
way
their
pretious
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,
Untill
their
Lord
himself
bespake,
and
bid
them
go.
And
though
the
shady
gloom
Had
given
day
her
room,
The
Sun
himself
with-held
his
wonted
speed,
And
hid
his
head
for
shame,
As
his
inferiour
flame,
The
new
enlightn’d
world
no
more
should
need;
He
saw
a
greater
Sun
appear
Then
his
bright
Throne,
or
burning
Axletree
could
bear.
The
Shepherds
on
the
Lawn,
Or
ere
the
point
of
dawn,
Sate
simply
chatting
in
a
rustick
row;
Full
little
thought
they
than,
That
the
mighty
Pan
Was
kindly
com
to
live
with
them
below;
Perhaps
their
loves,
or
els
their
sheep,
Was
all
that
did
their
silly
thoughts
so
busie
keep.
When
such
musick
sweet
Their
hearts
and
ears
did
greet,
As
never
was
by
mortall
finger
strook,
Divinely-warbled
voice
Answering
the
stringèd
noise,
As
all
their
souls
in
blisfull
rapture
took
The
Air
such
pleasure
loth
to
lose,
With
thousand
echo’s
still
prolongs
each
heav’nly
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
don,
And
that
her
raign
had
here
its
last
fulfilling;
She
knew
such
harmony
alone
Could
hold
all
Heav’n
and
Earth
in
happier
union.
At
last
surrounds
their
sight
A
Globe
of
circular
light,
That
with
long
beams
the
shame-fac’t
night
array’d,
The
helmèd
Cherubim
And
sworded
Seraphim,
Are
seen
in
glittering
ranks
with
wings
displaid,
Harping
in
loud
and
solemn
quire,
With
unexpressive
notes
to
Heav’ns
new-born
Heir.
Such
musick
(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-ballanc’t
world
on
hinges
hung,
And
cast
the
dark
foundations
deep,
And
bid
the
weltring
waves
their
oozy
channel
keep.
Ring
out
ye
Crystall
sphears,
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
Heav’ns
deep
Organ
blow
And
with
your
ninefold
harmony
Make
up
full
consort
to
th’Angelike
symphony.
For
if
such
holy
Song
Enwrap
our
fancy
long,
Time
will
run
back,
and
fetch
the
age
of
gold,
And
speckl’d
vanity
Will
sicken
soon
and
die,
And
leprous
sin
will
melt
from
earthly
mould,
And
Hell
it
self
will
pass
away,
And
leave
her
dolorous
mansions
to
the
peering
day.
Yea
Truth,
and
Justice
then
Will
down
return
to
men,
Th’enameld
Arras
of
the
Rain-bow
wearing,
And
Mercy
set
between,
Thron’d
in
Celestiall
sheen,
With
radiant
feet
the
tissued
clouds
down
stearing,
And
Heav’n
as
at
som
festivall,
Will
open
wide
the
Gates
of
her
high
Palace
Hall.
But
wisest
Fate
sayes
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
glorifie:
Yet
first
to
those
ychain’d
in
sleep,
The
wakefull
trump
of
doom
must
thunder
through
the
deep,
With
such
a
horrid
clang
As
on
mount
Sinai
rang
While
the
red
fire,
and
smouldring
clouds
out
brake:
The
agèd
Earth
agast
With
terrour
of
that
blast,
Shall
from
the
surface
to
the
center
shake;
When
at
the
worlds
last
session,
The
dreadfull
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
Th’old
Dragon
under
ground
In
straiter
limits
bound,
Not
half
so
far
casts
his
usurpèd
sway,
And
wrath
to
see
his
Kingdom
fail,
Swindges
the
scaly
Horrour
of
his
foulded
tail.
The
Oracles
are
dumm,
No
voice
or
hideous
humm
Runs
through
the
archèd
roof
in
words
deceiving.
Apollo
from
his
shrine
Can
no
more
divine,
With
hollow
shreik
the
steep
of
Delphos
leaving.
No
nightly
trance,
or
breathèd
spell,
Inspire’s
the
pale-ey’d
Priest
from
the
prophetic
cell.
The
lonely
mountains
o’re,
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
flowre-inwov’n
tresses
torn
The
Nimphs
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
Flamins
at
their
service
quaint;
And
the
chill
Marble
seems
to
sweat,
While
each
peculiar
power
forgoes
his
wonted
seat
Peor,
and
Baalim,
Forsake
their
Temples
dim,
With
that
twise-batter’d
god
of
Palestine,
And
moonèd
Ashtaroth,
Heav’ns
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
Thamuz
mourn.
And
sullen
Moloch
fled,
Hath
left
in
shadows
dred,
His
burning
Idol
all
of
blackest
hue,
In
vain
with
Cymbals
ring,
They
call
the
grisly
king,
In
dismall
dance
about
the
furnace
blue;
The
brutish
gods
of
Nile
as
fast,
Isis
and
Orus,
and
the
Dog
Anubis
hast.
Nor
is
Osiris
seen
In
Memphian
Grove,
or
Green,
Trampling
the
unshowr’d
Grasse
with
lowings
loud:
Nor
can
he
be
at
rest
Within
his
sacred
chest,
Naught
but
profoundest
Hell
can
be
his
shroud,
In
vain
with
Timbrel’d
Anthems
dark
The
sable-stolèd
Sorcerers
bear
his
worshipt
Ark.
He
feels
from
Juda’s
Land
The
dredded
Infants
hand,
The
rayes
of
Bethlehem
blind
his
dusky
eyn;
Nor
all
the
gods
beside,
Longer
dare
abide,
Not
Typhon
huge
ending
in
snaky
twine:
Our
Babe
to
shew
his
Godhead
true,
Can
in
his
swadling
bands
controul
the
damnèd
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’infernall
jail,
Each
fetter’d
Ghost
slips
to
his
severall
grave,
And
the
yellow-skirted
Fayes,
Fly
after
the
Night-steeds,
leaving
their
Moon-lov’d
maze.
But
see
the
Virgin
blest,
Hath
laid
her
Babe
to
rest.
Time
is
our
tedious
Song
should
here
have
ending,
Heav’ns
youngest
teemèd
Star,
Hath
fixt
her
polisht
Car,
Her
sleeping
Lord
with
Handmaid
Lamp
attending:
And
all
about
the
Courtly
Stable,
Bright-harnest
Angels
sit
in
order
serviceable.
