Henry Vaughan.



ON SHEPHERDS' PIPES.

O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night! Night to blest days in which a sun doth rise Of which that golden age which clears the skies Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light! And blessed ye, in silly pastors' 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—blessed 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.



ANGEL TIDINGS.

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-echoed the same.

William Drummond.



THE NEWS-BEARERS.

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 prest; 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.



HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY.

(BEING A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS.)

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?

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?

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.

O what a gracious God have we, How good! how great! even as our misery.

Jeremy Taylor.



A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY.

(SUNG AS BY THE SHEPHERDS.)

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 Then 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, etc.

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, etc.

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, etc.

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, etc.

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), etc.

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), etc.

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), etc.

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, etc.

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' homespun 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.



SUNG BY THE SHEPHERD.

The New Year is begun, Good-morrow, my masters all! The cheerful rising sun Now shining in this hall, Brings mirth and joy To man and boy. With all that here doth dwell; Whom Jesus bless With love's increase, So all things shall prosper well.

A New-Year's gift I bring Unto my master here, Which is a welcome thing Of mirth and merry cheer. A New-Year's lamb Come from thy dam An hour before daybreak, Your noted ewe Doth this bestow, Good master, for your sake.

And to my dame so kind This New-Year's gift I bring; I'll bear an honest mind Unto her whilst I live. Your white-woolled sheep I'll safely keep From harm of bush or brere, That garments gay For your array May clothe you the next New Year.

And to your children all, These New-Year's gifts I bring; And though the price be small, They're fit for queen or king: Fair pippins red Kept in my bed A-mellowing since last year, Whose beauty bright So clear of sight Their hearts will glad and cheer.

And to your maids and men I bring both points and pins; Come bid me welcome then, The good New Year begins: And for my love Let me approve The friendship of your Maid, Whose nappy ale, So good and stale, Will make my wits afraid.

I dare not with it deal But in a sober diet: If I, poor shepherd, steal A draught to be unquiet, And lose my way This New-Year's day As I go to my fold, You'll surely think My love of drink This following year will hold.

Here stands my bottle and hook, Good kitchen-maid, draw near, Thou art an honest cook, And canst brew ale and beer; Thy office show, Before I go, My bottle and bag come fill, And for thy sake I'll merry make Upon the next green hill.

New Christmas Carols.



FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD."

AT BETHLEHEM.

So many hills arising, green and gray, On Earth's large round, and that one hill to say: "I was his bearing-place!" On Earth's wide breast So many maids! and she—of all most blest— Heavily mounting Bethlehem, to be His Mother!—Holy Maid of Galilee! Hill, with the olives, and the little town! If rivers from their crystal founts flow down, If 'twas the dawn which did day's gold unbar, Ye were beginnings of the best we are, The most we see, the highest that we know, The lifting heavenward of man's life below. Therefore, though better lips ye shall not lack, Suffer if one of modern mood steals back— Weary and wayworn from the desert-road Of barren thought; from Hope's Dead Sea, which glowed With Love's fair mirage; from the poet's haunt, The scholar's lamp, the statesman's scheme, the vaunt, The failure, of all fond philosophies,— Back unto Thee, back to thy olive-trees, Thy people, and thy story, and thy Son, Mary of Nazareth! So long agone Bearing us Him who made our christendom, And came to save the earth, from heav'n, His home.

So many hill-sides, crowned with rugged rocks! So many simple shepherds keeping flocks In many moonlit fields! but, only they— So lone, so long ago, so far away— On that one winter's night, at Bethlehem, To have white angels singing lauds for them! They only—hinds wrapped in the he-goat's skin— To hear heaven's music, bidding peace begin! Only for those, of countless watching eyes, The "Glory of the Lord" glad to arise; The skies to blaze with gold and silver light Of seraphs by strong joy flashed into sight; The wind, for them, with that strange song to swell,— By too much happiness incredible— That tender anthem of good times to be, Then at their dawn—not daylight yet, ah me! "Peace upon earth! Good-will!" sung to the strings Of lutes celestial. Nay, if these things Too blessed to believe have seemed, or seem, Not ours the fault, dear angels! Prove the dream Waking and true! sing once again, and make Moonlight and starlight sweet for earth's sad sake! Or, if heaven bids ye lock in silence still Conquest of peace, and coming of good-will, Till times to be, then—oh, you placid sheep! Ah, thrice-blest shepherds! suffer if we creep Back through the tangled thicket of the years To graze in your fair flock, to strain our ears With listening herdsmen, if, perchance, one note Of such high singing in the fine air float; If any rock thrills yet with that great strain We did not hear, and shall not hear, again; If any olive-leaf at Bethlehem Lisps still one syllable vouchsafed to them; If some stream, conscious still—some breeze—be stirred With echo of th' immortal words ye heard.

What was it that ye heard? the wind of night Playing in cheating tones, with touches light, Amid the palm-plumes? or, one stop outblown Of planetary music, so far flown Earthwards, that to those innocent ears 'twas brought Which bent the mighty measure to their thought? Or, haply, from breast-shaped Beth-Haccarem, The hill of Herod, some waft sent to them Of storming drums and trumps, at festival Held in the Idumaean's purple hall? Or, it may be, some Aramaic song Of country lovers, after partings long Meeting anew, with much "good will" indeed, Blown by some swain upon his Jordan reed? Nay, nay! your abbas back ye did not fling, From each astonished ear, for swains to sing Their village-verses clear; for sounds well-known Of wandering breeze, or whispering trees, or tone Of Herod's trumpets. And ye did not gaze Heart-startled on the stars (albeit the rays Of that lone orb shot, sparkling, from the east Unseen before), for these, largest and least, Were fold-lamps, lighted nightly: and ye knew Far differing glory in the night's dark blue Suddenly lit with rose, and pierced with spike Of golden spear-beam. Oh, a dream, belike! Some far-fetched vision, new to peasant's sleep, Of paradise stripped bare!—But, why thus keep Secrets for them? This bar, which doth enclose Better and nobler souls, why burst for those Who supped on the parched pulse, and lapped the stream, And each, at the same hour, dreams the same dream! Or, easier still, they lied! Yet, wherefore, then "Rise, and go up to Bethlehem," and unpen To wolf and jackal all their hapless fold So they might "see these things which had been told In heaven's own voice"? And heaven, whate'er betide, Spreads surely somewhere, on death's farther side!

And, truly, if joy's music once hath rung Prom lips of bands invisible, if any— (Be they the dead, or of the deathless many)— Love and serve man, angelical befrienders, Glad of his weal, and from his woe defenders,— If such, in heaven, have pity on our tears, Forever falling with the unmending years, High cause had they, at Bethlehem, that night, To lift the curtain of hope's hidden light, To break decree of silence with love's cry, Foreseeing how this Babe, born lowlily, Should—past dispute, since now achieved is this— Bring earth great gifts of blessing and of bliss; Date, from that crib, the dynasty of love; Strip his misused thunderbolts from Jove; Bend to their knee Rome's Caesars, break the chain From the slave's neck; set sick hearts free again Bitterly bound by priests, and scribes, and scrolls; And heal, with balm of pardon, sinking souls: Should mercy to her vacant throne restore, Teach right to kings, and patience to the poor; Should, from that bearing-cave, outside the khan, Amid the kneeling cattle, rise, and be Light of all lands, and splendor of each sea, The sun-burst of a new morn come to earth, Not yet, alas! broad day, but day's white birth Which promiseth; and blesseth, promising. These from that night! What cause of wondering If that one silence of all silences Brake into music? if, for hopes like these Angels, who love us, sang that song, and show Of time's far purpose made the "great light" glow?

Wherefore, let whosoever will drink dry His cup of faith; and think that, verily, Not in a vision, no way otherwise Than those poor shepherds told, there did arise This portent. Being amidst their sheep and goats, Lapped careless in their pasture-keeping coats, Blind as their drowsy beasts to what drew nigh, (Such the lulled ear, and such th' unbusied eye Which ofttimes hears and sees hid things!) there spread The "Glory of the Lord" around each head: Broke, be it deemed, o'er hill and over hollow, On the inner seeing, the sense concealed, unknown, Of those plain hinds—glad, humble, and alone— Flooding their minds, filling their hearts; around, Above, below, disclosing grove and ground, The rocks, the hill, the town, the solitude, The wondering flocks,—agaze with grass half-chewed,— The palm-crowns, and the path to Bethlehem, As sight angelic spies. And, came to them The "Angel of the Lord," visible, sure, Known for the angel by his presence pure Whereon was written love, and peace, and grace, With beauty passing mortal mien and face.

So when the Angels were no more to see, Re-entering those gates of space,—whose key Love keeps on that side, and on this side death— Each shepherd to the other whispering saith, Lest he should miss some lingering symphonies Of that departing music, "Let us rise And go even now to Bethlehem, and spy This which is come to pass, shewed graciously By the Lord's angels." Therewith hasted they By olive-yards, and old walls mossed and gray Where, in close chinks, the lizard and the snake, Thinking the sunlight come, stirred, half-awake: Across the terraced levels of the vines, Under the pillared palms, along the lines Of lance-leaved oleanders, scented sweet, Through the pomegranate-gardens sped their feet; Over the causeway, up the slope, they spring, Breast the steep path, with steps not slackening; Past David's well, past the town-wall they ran, Unto the House of Chimham, to the khan, Where mark them peering in, the posts between, Questioning—all out of breath—if birth hath been This night, in any guest-room, high or low? The drowsy porter at the gate saith, "No!"— Shooting the bars; while the packed camels shake Their bells to listen, and the sleepers wake, And to their feet the ponderous steers slow rise, Lifting from trampled fodder large mild eyes;— "Nay! Brothers! no such thing! yet there is gone Yonder, one nigh her time, a gentle one! With him that seemed her spouse—of Galilee; They toiled at sundown to our doors—but, see! No nook was here! Seek at the cave instead; We shook some barley-straw to make their bed."

Then to the cave they wended, and there spied That which was more, if truth be testified, Than all the pomp seen thro' proud Herod's porch Ablaze with brass, and silk, and scented torch, High on Beth-Haccarem; more to behold, If men had known, than all the glory told Of splendid Caesar in his marbled home On the white Isle; or audience-hall at Rome With trembling princes thronged. A clay lamp swings By twisted camel-cords, from blackened rings, Shewing with flickering gleams, a Child new-born Wrapped in a cloth, laid where the beasts at morn Will champ their bean-straw: in the lamp-ray dim A fresh-made Mother by Him, fostering Him With face and mien to worship, speaking naught; Close at hand Joseph, and the ass, hath brought That precious twofold burden to the gate; With goats, sheep, oxen, driven to shelter late: No mightier sight! Yet all sufficeth it— If we will deem things be beyond our wit— To prove heaven's music true, and show heaven's way, How, not by famous kings, nor with array Of brazen letters on the boastful stone, But "by the mouth of babes," quiet, alone, Little beginnings planning for large ends, With other purpose than fond man attends, Wisdom and love, in secret fellowship Guide our world's wandering with a finger-tip; And how, that night, as these did darkly see, They sealed the first scrolls of earth's history, And opened what shall run till death be dead.

Which babe they reverenced, bending low the head, First of all worshippers; and told the things Done in the plain, and played on angel's strings. Then those around wondered and worshipped, too, And Mary heard—but wondered not—anew Hiding this in her heart, the heart which beat With blood of Jesus Christ, holy and sweet.

Also, not marvelling, albeit they heard, Stood certain by—those three swart ones—appeared From climes unknown; yet, surely, on high quest Of what that star proclaimed, bright on the breast First of the Ram, afterwards glittering thence Into the watery Trigon, where, intense, It lit the Crab, and burned the Fishes pale. Three Signiors, owning many a costly bale; Three travelled masters, by their bearing lords Of lands and slaves. The Indian silk affords, With many a folded braid of white and gold, Shade to their brows; rich goat-hair shawls did fold Their gowns of flow'r'd white muslin, midway tied; And ruby, turkis, emerald—stones of pride— Blazed on their thumb-rings; and a pearl gleamed white In every ear; and silver belts, clasped tight, Held ink-box, reeds, and knives, in scabbards gemmed; Curled shoes of goat-skin dyed, with seed-pearls hemmed, Shod their brown feet; hair shorn; lids low, to think— Eyes deep and wistful, as of those who drink Waters of hidden wisdom, night and day, And live twain lives, conforming as they may, In diligence, and due observances To ways of men; yet, not at one with these; But ever straining past the things that seem To that which is—the truth behind the dream. Three princely wanderers of the Asian blood Perchance, by Indus dwellers; or some flood, That feeds her from Himala's icy dome; Or, haply, to those Syrian palm-trees come From Gunga's banks, or mounts of Malabar Which lift the Deccan to its sun, and far— Rampart-like—fringe the blue Arabian Sea. True followers of the Buddh they seemed to be, The better arm and shoulder showing bare With each; and on the neck of each, draped fair A scarf of saffron, patched; and, 'twixt the eyes, In saffron stamped, the Name of mysteries OM; and the Swastika, with secrets rife How man may 'scape the dire deceits of life.

These three stood by, as who would entrance make; And heard the shepherd's tale; and, hearing, spake Strange Indian words one to another; then sent Command. Their serving-men, obedient, Cast loose from off the camels, kneeling nigh, Nettings and mats, and made the fastenings fly From belly-band, and crupper-rope, and tail; And broke the knots, and let each dusty bale Slide from the saddle-horns, and give to see Long-hoarded treasure of great jewelry, And fragrant secrets of the Indian grove, And splendors of the Indian looms, inwove With gold and silver flowers: "for, now," said they, "Our eyes have seen this thing sought day by day; By the all-conscious, silent sky well-known, And, specially, of yon white star fore-shown Which, bursting magically on the sight, Beckoned us from our homes, shining aright, The silver beacon to this holy hill: Mark if it sparkles not, aware and still, Over the place: The astral houses, see! Spake truth: Our feet were guided faithfully. 'Tis the Star-Child, who was to rise, and wear A crown than Suleiman's more royal and rare, 'King of the Jews!' Grant an approach to us Who crave to worship Him."

Now, it fell thus That these first to Jerusalem had passed, And sojourned there, observing feast and fast In the thronged city; oft of townsmen seen In market and bazaar; and, by their mien Noted for lordliest of all strangers there, Much whispered of, in sooth, as who saw clear Shadows of times to come, and secrets bright Writ in the jewelled cipher of the night. So that the voice of this to Herod went Feastful and fearful; ever ill-content Mid plots and perils; girt with singing boys, And dancing girls of Tyre, and armored noise Of Caesar's legionaries. Long and near, In audience hall, each dusky wayfarer Questioned he of their knowledge, and the star, What message flashed it? Whether near or far Would rise this portent of a Babe to reign King of the Jews, and bring a crown again To weeping Zion, and cast forth from them The Roman scourge? And if at Bethlehem, As, with one voice, priests, elders, scribes aver, Then, let them thither wend, and spy the stir, And find this Babe, and come anew to him, Declaring where the wonder. "'Twas his whim" Quotha "to be of fashion with the stars, (Weary, like them, of gazing upon wars) To shine upon this suckling, bending knee Save unto Caesar uncrooked latterly."

Thence came it those three stood at entering Before the door; and their rich gifts did bring, Red gold from the Indian rocks, cunningly beat To plate and chalice, with old fables sweet Of Buddh's compassion, and dark Mara's powers Round the brims glittering; and a riot of flowers Done on the gold, with gold script to proclaim The Noble Truths, and Threefold mystic Name OM, and the Swastika, and how man wins Blessed Nirvana's rest, being quit of sins, And, day and night, reciting, "Oh, the Gem! Upon the Lotus! Oh, the Lotus-stem!" Also, more precious than much gold, they poured Rare spices forth, unknitting cord on cord; And, one by one, unwinding cloths, as though The merchantmen had sought to shut in so The breath of those distillings: in such kind As when Nile's black embalming slaves would bind Sindon o'er sindon, cere-cloth, cinglets, bands Roll after roll, on head, breast, feet, and hands, Round some dead king, whose cold and withered palm Had dropped the sceptre; drenched with musk and balm, And natron, and what keeps from perishing; So they might save—after long wandering— The body for the spirit, and hold fast Life's likeness, till the dead man lived at last. Thus, from their coats involved of leaves and silk, Slowly they freed the odorous thorn-tree's milk, The gray myrrh, and the cassia, and the spice, Filling the wind with frankincense past price, With hearts of blossoms from a hundred glens And essence of a thousand rose-gardens, Till the night's gloom like a royal curtain hung Jewelled with stars, and rich with fragrance flung Athwart the arch; and, in the cavern there The air around was as the breathing-air Of a queen's chamber, when she comes to bed, And all that glad earth owns gives goodlihead.

Witness them entering,—these three from afar— Who knew the skies, and had the strange white star To light their nightly lamp, thro' deserts wide Of Bactria, and the Persic wastes, and tide Of Tigris and Euphrates; past the snow Of Ararat, and where the sand-winds blow O'er Ituraea; and the crimson peaks Of Moab, and the fierce, bright, barren reeks From Asphaltities; to this hill—to thee Bethlehem-Ephrata! Witness these three Gaze, hand in hand, with faces grave and mild, Where, 'mid the gear and goats, Mother and Child Make state and splendor for their eyes. Then lay Each stranger on the earth, in the Indian way, Paying the "eight prostrations;" and was heard Saying softly, in the Indian tongue, that word Wherewith a Prince is honored. Humbly ran, On this, the people of their caravan And fetch the gold, and—laid on gold—the spice, Frankincense, myrrh: and next, with reverence nice, Foreheads in dust, they spread the precious things At Mary's feet, and worship Him who clings To Mary's bosom drinking soft life so Who shall be life and light to all below. "For, now we see," say they, departing: "plain The star's word comes to pass! The Buddh again Appeareth, or some Boddhisat of might Arising for the west, who shall set right, And serve and reconcile; and, maybe, teach Knowledge to those who know. We, brothers, each, Have heard yon shepherds babbling: if the sky Speaketh with such, heaven's mercy is drawn nigh! Well did we counsel, journeying to this place! Yon hour-old Babe, milking that breast of grace, The world will praise and worship, well-content."

Then, fearing Herod, to their homes they went Musing along the road. But he alway Angered and troubled, bade his soldiers slay Whatever man-child sucked in Bethlehem. Lord! had'st Thou been all God, as pleaseth them Who poorly see Thy godlike self, and take True glory from Thee for false glory's sake: Co-equal power, as these—too bold—blaspheme, Ruler of what Thou camest to redeem; Not Babe Divine, feeling with touch of silk For fountains of a mortal Mother's milk With sweet mouth buried in the warm feast thus, And dear heart growing great to beat for us, And soft feet waiting till the way was spread Whereby what was true God in Thee should tread Triumphant over woe and death to bliss,— Thou, from Thy cradle would'st have stayed in this Those butchers! With one angel's swift decree, Out of the silver cohorts lackeying Thee, Thou had'st thrust down the bitter prince who killed Thine innocents! Would'st Thou not? Was't not willed? Alas! "Peace and good-will" in agony Found first fruits! Rama heard that woful cry Of Rachel weeping for the children; lone, Uncomforted, because her babes are gone. Herod the King! hast thou heard Rachel's wail Where restitution is? Did aught avail Somewhere? at last? past life? after long stress Of heavy shame to bring forgetfulness? If such grace be, no hopeless sin is wrought; Thy bloody blade missed what its vile edge sought; Mother, and Child, and Joseph—safe from thee— Journey to Egypt, while the eastern Three Wind homewards, lightened of their spice and gold; And those great days, that were to be, unfold In the fair fields beside the shining sea Which rolls, 'mid palms and rocks, in Galilee.

Sir Edwin Arnold.



It Brings Good Cheer.

"You may talk of Country Christmasses, Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues; Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris; the carcasses of three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock!"

Massinger.



OLD CHRISTMAS RETURNED.

All you that to feasting and mirth are inclined, Come, here is good news for to pleasure your mind; Old Christmas is come for to keep open house, He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse. Then come, boys, and welcome for diet the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

A long time together he hath been forgot, They scarce could afford to hang on the pot; Such miserly sneaking in England hath been, As by our forefathers ne'er us'd to be seen; But now he's returned, you shall have in brief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

The times were ne'er good since Old Christmas was fled, And all hospitality hath been so dead; No mirth at our festivals late did appear, They scarcely would part with a cup of March beer; But now you shall have for the ease of your grief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

The butler and baker, they now may be glad, The times they are mended, though they have been bad; The brewer, he likewise may be of good cheer, He shall have good trading for ale and strong beer; All trades shall be jolly, and have for relief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

The holly and ivy about the walls wind, And show that we ought to our neighbors be kind, Inviting each other for pastime and sport, And where we best fare, there we most do resort; We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

The cooks shall be busied by day and by night, In roasting and boiling, for taste and delight; Their senses in liquor that's nappy they'll steep, Though they be afforded to have little sleep; They still are employed for to dress us in brief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

Although the cold weather doth hunger provoke, 'Tis a comfort to see how the chimneys do smoke; Provision is making for beer, ale, and wine, For all that are willing or ready to dine: Then haste to the kitchen for diet the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

All travellers, as they do pass on their way, At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay, Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest, Since that he must be Old Christmas's guest; Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

Now Mock-beggar-hall it no more shall stand empty, But all shall be furnisht with freedom and plenty; The hoarding old misers, who us'd to preserve The gold in their coffers, and see the poor starve, Must now spread their tables, and give them in brief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

The court, and the city, and country are glad, Old Christmas is come to cheer up the sad; Broad pieces and guineas about now shall fly, And hundreds be losers by cogging a die, Whilst others are feasting with diet the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

Those that have no coin at the cards for to play, May sit by the fire and pass time away, And drink of their moisture contented and free, "My honest, good fellow, come, here is to thee!" And when they are hungry, fall to their relief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

Young gallants and ladies shall foot it along, Each room in the house to the music shall throng, Whilst jolly carouses about they shall pass, And each country swain trip about with his lass; Meantime goes the caterer to fetch in the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

The cooks and the scullion, who toil in their frocks, Their hopes do depend upon their Christmas-box; There is very few that do live on the earth But enjoy at this time either profit or mirth; Yea, those that are charged to find all relief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

Then well may we welcome Old Christmas to town, Who brings us good cheer and good liquor so brown; To pass the cold winter away with delight, We feast it all day, and we frolic all night; Both hunger and cold we keep out with relief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

Then let all curmudgeons who dote on their wealth, And value their treasure much more than their health, Go hang themselves up, if they will be so kind; Old Christmas with them but small welcome shall find; They will not afford to themselves without grief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced-pies, and roast-beef.

Evans' Old Ballads.



THE TRENCHERMAN.

My master and dame, I well perceive, Are purposed to be merry to-night, And willingly hath given me leave To combat with a Christmas Knight. Sir Pig, I see, comes prancing in And bids me draw if that I dare; I care not for his valor a pin, For Jack of him will have a share.

My lady goose among the rest Upon the table takes her place, And piping-hot bids do my best, And bravely looks me in the face; For pigs and geese are gallant cheer, God bless my master and dame therefore! I trust before the next New Year To eat my part of half a score.

I likewise see good minced-pie Here standing swaggering on the table; The lofty walls so large and high I'll level down if I be able; For they be furnished with good plums, And spiced well with pepper and salt, Every prune as big as both my thumbs To drive down bravely the juice of malt.

Fill me some of your Christmas beer, Your pepper sets my mouth on heat, And Jack's a-dry with your good cheer, Give me some good ale to my meat. And then again my stomach I'll show, For good roast-beef here stoutly stands; I'll make it stoop before I go, Or I'll be no man of my hands.

And for the plenty of this house God keep it thus well-stored alway; Come, butler, fill me a good carouse, And so we'll end our Christmas day.

New Christmas Carols.



BAN AND BLESSING.

Now Christmas comes, 'tis fit that we Should feast and sing and merry be, Keep open house, let fiddlers play; A fig for cold, sing care away! And may they who thereat repine, On brown bread and on small beer dine. Make fires with logs, let the cooks sweat With boiling and with roasting meat; Let ovens be heat for fresh supplies Of puddings, pasties, and minced-pies. And whilst that Christmas doth abide Let butt'ry-door stand open wide. Hang up those churls that will not feast Or with good fellows be a guest, And hang up those would take away The observation of that day; O may they never minced-pies eat, Plum-pudding, roast-beef, nor such meat. But blest be they, awake and sleep, Who at that time a good house keep; May never want come nigh their door, Who at that time relieve the poor; Be plenty always in their house Of beef, veal, lamb, pork, mutton, souse.

Poor Robin's Almanac.



THRICE WELCOME!

Now thrice welcome, Christmas, Which brings us good cheer, Minced-pies and plum porridge, Good ale and strong beer; With pig, goose, and capon, The best that may be, So well doth the weather And our stomachs agree.

Observe how the chimneys Do smoke all about; The cooks are providing For dinner, no doubt; But those on whose tables No victuals appear, O may they keep Lent All the rest of the year.

With holly and ivy So green and so gay, We deck up our houses As fresh as the day; With bay and rosemary And laurel complete; And every one now Is a king in conceit.

Poor Robin's Almanac.



CHRISTMAS PROVENDER.

Provide for Christmas ere that it do come, To feast thy neighbor good cheer to have some; Good bread and drink, a fire in the hall, Brawn, pudding, souse, and good mustard withal. Beef, mutton, pork, and shred pies of the best, Pig, veal, goose, capon, and turkey well drest; Apples and nuts to throw about the hall, That boys and girls may scramble for them all. Sing jolly carols, make the fiddlers play, Let scrupulous fanatics keep away; For oftentimes seen no arranter knave Than some who do counterfeit most to be grave.

Poor Robin's Almanac.



GLEE AND SOLACE.

With merry glee and solace This second day of Christmas Now comes in bravely to my master's house, Where plenty of good cheer I see, With that which most contenteth me, As brawn and bacon, powdered beef, and souse.

For the love of Stephen, That blessed saint of heaven, Which stoned was for Jesus Christ his sake, Let us all, both more and less, Cast away all heaviness, And in a sober manner merry make.

He was a man beloved, And his faith approved By suffering death on this holy day, Where he with gentle patience And a constant sufferance, Hath taught us all to heaven the ready way.

So let our mirth be civil, That not one thought of evil May take possession of our hearts at all, So shall we love and favor get Of them that kindly thus do set Their bounties here so freely in this hall.

Of delicates so dainty, I see now here is plenty Upon this table ready here prepared; Then let us now give thanks to those That all things friendly thus bestows, Esteeming not this world that is so hard.

For of the same my master Hath made me here a taster; The Lord above requite him for the same! And so to all within this house I will drink a full carouse, With leave of my good master and my dame.

And the Lord be praised My stomach is well eased, My bones at quiet may go take their rest; Good fortune surely follow me To bring me thus so luckily To eat and drink so freely of the best.

New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1661.



ON SAINT JOHN'S DAY.

In honor of Saint John we thus Do keep good Christmas cheer; And he that comes to dine with us, I think he need not spare. The butcher he hath killed good beef, The caterer brings it in; But Christmas pies are still the chief, If that I durst begin.

Our bacon-hogs are full and fat To make us brawn and souse; Full well may I rejoice thereat To see them in the house. But yet the minced-pie it is That sets my teeth on water; Good mistress, let me have a bit, For I do long thereafter.

And I will fetch you water in To brew and bake withal, Your love and favor still to win When as you please to call. Then grant me, dame, your love and leave To taste your pie-meat here; It is the best, in my conceit, Of all your Christmas-cheer.

The cloves, and mace, and gallant plums That here on heaps do lie, And prunes as big as both my thumbs, Enticeth much mine eye. Oh, let me eat my belly-full Of your good Christmas-pie; Except thereat I have a pull, I think I sure shall die.

Good master, stand my loving friend, For Christmas-time is short, And when it comes unto an end I may no longer sport; Then while it doth continue here, Let me such labor find To eat my fill of that good cheer That best doth please my mind.

Then I shall thank my dame therefore, That gives her kind consent That Jack, your boy, with others more, May have this Christmas spent In pleasant mirth and merry glee, As young men most delight; For that's the only sport for me, And so God give you all good-night.

New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1661.



CHRISTMAS ALMS.

Now that the time is come wherein Our Saviour Christ was born, The larders full of beef and pork, The garners filled with corn; As God hath plenty to thee sent, Take comfort of thy labors, And let it never thee repent To feast thy needy neighbors.

Let fires in every chimney be That people they may warm them; Tables with dishes covered,— Good victuals will not harm them. With mutton, veal, beef, pig, and pork, Well furnish every board; Plum-pudding, furmety, and what Thy stock will them afford.

No niggard of thy liquor be, Let it go round thy table; People may freely drink, but not So long as they are able. Good customs they may be abused, Which makes rich men to slack us; This feast is to relieve the poor, And not to drunken Bacchus.

This, if thou doest, 'Twill credit raise thee; God will thee bless, And neighbors praise thee.

Poor Robin's Almanac.



CHRISTMAS AT THE ROUND TABLE.

The great King Arthur made a royal feast, And held his Royal Christmas at Carlisle, And thither came the vassals, most and least, From every corner of the British Isle; And all were entertained, both man and beast, According to their rank, in proper style; The steeds were fed and littered in the stable, The ladies and the knights sat down to table.

The bill of fare (as you may well suppose) Was suited to those plentiful old times, Before our modern luxuries arose, With truffles, and ragouts, and various crimes; And, therefore, from the original in prose I shall arrange the catalogue in rhymes: They served up salmon, venison and wild boars By hundreds, and by dozens, and by scores.

Hogsheads of honey, kilderkins of mustard, Muttons, and fatted beeves, and bacon swine; Herons and bitterns, peacocks, swan, and bustard, Teal, mallard, pigeons, widgeons, and, in fine. Plum-puddings, pancakes, apple-pies, and custard, And therewithal they drank good Gascon wine, With mead, and ale, and cider of our own; For porter, punch, and negus were not known.

All sorts of people there were seen together, All sorts of characters, all sorts of dresses; The fool with fox's tail and peacock feather, Pilgrims, and penitents, and grave burgesses; The country people with their coats of leather, Vintners and victuallers with cans and messes, Grooms, archers, varlets, falconers, and yeomen, Damsels, and waiting-maids, and waiting-women.

John Hookham Frere.



Lullaby.

"Sleep, my little one, Sleep, my pretty one, Sleep."

Tennyson.



A CAROL AT THE MANGER.

Lully, lulla, thow littel tine child; By, by, lully, lullay, thow littell tyne child; By, by, lully, lullay.

O sisters too! how may we do, For to preserve this day This pore yongling, for whom we do sing By, by, lully, lullay.

Herod the King, in his raging, Chargid he hath this day His men of might, in his owne sight, All yonge children to slay.

That wo is me, pore child for the! And ever morne and day, For the parting nether say nor singe By, by, lully, lullay.

Coventry Mysteries.



A DREAM CAROL.

Ah, my dear Son, said Mary, ah, my dear, Kiss thy mother, Jesu, with a laughing cheer!

This endnes[G] night I saw a sight All in my sleep, Mary, that May, she sung lullay And sore did weep; To keep, she sought, full fast about Her Son from cold. Joseph said, Wife, my joy, my life, Say what ye would. Nothing, my spouse, is in this house Unto my pay;[H] My Son a king, that made all thing, Lieth in hay. Ah, my dear Son! etc.

My mother dear, amend your cheer And now be still; Thus for to lie it is soothly My Father's will. Derision, great passion, Infinitely, As it is found many a wound Suffer shall I; On Calvary that is so high There shall I be, Man to restore, nailed full sore Upon a tree. Ah, my dear Son! etc.

Sandy's Christmas Carols.

FOOTNOTES:

[G] Last.

[H] Content.



THE KING IN THE CRADLE.

My sweet little baby, what meanest thou to cry? Be still, my blessed babe, though cause thou hast to mourn, Whose blood most innocent to shed the cruel king hath sworn; And lo, alas! behold what slaughter he doth make, Shedding the blood of infants all, sweet Saviour, for thy sake. A King, a King is born, they say, which King this king would kill: O woe and woful heavy day when wretches have their will! Lulla, la lulla, lulla lullaby.

Three kings this King of kings to see are come from far, To each unknown, with offerings great, by guiding of a star; And shepherds heard the song, which angels bright did sing, Giving all glory unto God for coming of this King, Which must be made away—King Herod would him kill; O woe and woful heavy day when wretches have their will? Lulla, etc.

Lo, lo, my little babe, be still, lament no more; From fury thou shalt step aside, help have we still in store: We heavenly warning have some other soil to seek; From death must fly the Lord of life, as lamb both mild and meek: Thus must my babe obey the king that would him kill; O woe and woful heavy day when wretches have their will! Lulla, etc.

But thou shalt live and reign, as sibyls hath foresaid, As all the prophets prophesy, whose mother, yet a maid And perfect virgin pure, with her breasts shall upbreed Both God and man that all hath made, the son of heavenly seed: Whom caitives none can 'tray, whom tyrants none can kill: O joy and joyful happy day when wretches want their will! Lulla, etc.

Byrd's Psalmes, Sonets, etc., A.D. 1588.



MADONNA AND CHILD.

This endris night[I] I saw a sight, A star as bright as day; And ever among A maiden sung, Lullay, by by, lullay.

This lovely lady sat and sang, and to her child she said,— "My son, my brother, my father dear, why liest thou thus in hayd?[J] My sweet bird, Thus it is betide Though thou be king veray; But, nevertheless, I will not cease To sing, by by, lullay."

The child then spake; in his talking he to his mother said,— "I bekid[K] am king, in crib though I be laid; For angels bright Down to me light, Thou knowest it is no nay, And of that sight Thou mayest be light To sing, by by, lullay."

"Now, sweet Son, since thou art king, why art thou laid in stall? Why not thou ordain thy bedding in some great kinges hall? Methinketh it is right That king or knight Should be in good array; And them among It were no wrong To sing, by by, lullay."

"Mary, mother, I am thy child, though I be laid in stall, Lords and dukes shall worship me and so shall kinges all. Ye shall well see That kinges three Shall come on the twelfth day; For this behest Give me thy breast And sing, by by, lullay."

"Now tell me, sweet Son, I thee pray, thou art my love and dear, How should I keep thee to thy pay[L] and make thee glad of cheer? For all thy will I would fulfil Thou weet'st full well in fay, And for all this I will thee kiss, And sing, by by, lullay."

"My dear mother, when time it be, take thou me up aloft, And set me upon thy knee and handle me full soft. And in thy arm Thou wilt me warm, And keep me night and day; If I weep And may not sleep Thou sing, by by, lullay."

"Now, sweet Son, since it is so, all things are at thy will, I pray thee grant to me a boon if it be right and skill, That child or man, That will or can, Be merry upon my day; To bliss them bring, And I shall sing, Lullay, by by, lullay."

FOOTNOTES:

[I] Endris night: last night.

[J] Hay.

[K] Nevertheless.

[L] Peace.



A ROCKING HYMN.

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 blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What things 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 secured 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.



A CRADLE-SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

The Virgin stills the crying Of Jesus, sleepless lying; And singing for his pleasure, Thus calls upon her treasure, "My darling, do not weep, my Jesu, sleep!"

O lamb, my love inviting, O star, my soul delighting, O flower of mine own bearing, O jewel past comparing! My darling, etc.

My Child, of might indwelling, My sweet, all sweets excelling, Of bliss the fountain flowing, The dayspring ever glowing My darling, etc.

My joy, my exultation, My spirit's consolation; My son, my spouse, my brother, O listen to thy mother! My darling, etc.

Say, would'st thou heavenly sweetness, Or love of answering meetness? Or is fit music wanting? Ho! angels, raise your chanting! My darling, etc.

Translated from the Latin by Rev. H. R. Bramley.



WHISPERING PALMS.

Holy angels and blest, Through these Palms as ye sweep, Hold their branches at rest, For my Babe is asleep.

And ye, Bethlehem palm-trees, As stormy winds rush In tempest and fury Your angry noise hush;— Move gently, move gently, Restrain your wild sweep; Hold your branches at rest— My Babe is asleep.

Lope de Vega.



A CHRISTMAS LULLABY.

Sleep, baby, sleep! The Mother sings; Heaven's angels kneel and fold their wings: Sleep, baby, sleep!

With swathes of scented hay thy bed By Mary's hand at eve was spread. Sleep, baby, sleep!

At midnight came the shepherds, they Whom seraphs wakened by the way. Sleep, baby, sleep!

And three kings from the East afar Ere dawn came, guided by thy star. Sleep, baby, sleep!

They brought thee gifts of gold and gems, Pure orient pearls, rich diadems. Sleep, baby, sleep!

But thou who liest slumbering there, Art King of kings, earth, ocean, air. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds sing: Through heaven, through earth, hosannas ring. Sleep, baby, sleep!

John Addington Symonds.



THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN.

Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet Quae tam dulcem somnum videt, Dormi, Jesu! blandule! Si non dormis, Mater plorat Inter fila cantans orat, Blande, veni, somnule.

Translation.

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.



THE SOVEREIGN.

Upon my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meantime his love maintains my life And gives my sense her rest. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would, Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thyself Vouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Martin Peerson, A.D. 1620.



BY THE CRADLE-SIDE.

Sweet dreams, form a shade O'er my lovely infant's head! Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy, silent, moony beams!

Sweet sleep, with soft down Weave thy brows an infant crown! Sweet sleep, angel mild, Hover o'er my happy child!

Sweet smiles, in the night Hover over my delight! Sweet smiles, mother's smile All the livelong night beguile.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, Chase not slumber from thine eyes! Sweet moan, sweeter smile, All the dovelike moans beguile!

Sleep, sleep, happy child! All creation slept and smiled. Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, While o'er thee doth mother weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face Holy image I can trace; Sweet babe, once like thee Thy Maker lay and wept for me:

Wept for me, for thee, for all, When he was an infant small; Thou his image ever see, Heavenly face that smiles on thee!

Smiles on thee, on me, on all, Who became an infant small, Infant smiles are his own smiles: Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.

William Blake.



THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS.

But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest.

Milton.

I.

Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One! My flesh, my Lord!—what name? I do not know A name that seemeth not too high or low, Too far from me or heaven. My Jesus, that is best! that word being given By the majestic angel whose command Was softly as a man's beseeching said, When I and all the earth appeared to stand In the great overflow Of light celestial from his wings and head. Sleep, sleep, my saving One!

II.

And art Thou come for saving, baby-browed And speechless Being—art Thou come for saving? The palm that grows beside our door is bowed By treadings of the low wind from the south, A restless shadow through the chamber waving: Upon its bough a bird sings in the sun; But Thou, with that close slumber on thy mouth, Dost seem of wind and sun already weary. Art come for saving, O my weary One?

III.

Perchance this sleep that shutteth out the dreary Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy soul High dreams on fire with God; High songs that make the pathways where they roll More bright than stars do theirs; and visions new Of Thine eternal nature's old abode. Suffer this mother's kiss, Best thing that earthly is, To guide the music and the glory through, Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad upliftings Of any seraph wing! Thus, noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, my dreaming One!

IV.

The slumber of His lips meseems to run Through my lips to mine heart; to all its shiftings Of sensual life, bring contrariousness In a great calm. I feel, I could lie down As Moses did, and die,[M]—and then live most. I am 'ware of you, heavenly Presences, That stand with your peculiar light unlost, Each forehead with a high thought for a crown, Unsunned i' the sunshine! I am 'ware. Yet throw No shade against the wall! How motionless Ye round me with your living statuary, While through your whiteness, in and outwardly, Continual thoughts of God appear to go, Like light's soul in itself! I bear, I bear, To look upon the dropt lids of your eyes, Though their external shining testifies To that beatitude within, which were Enough to blast an eagle at his sun. I fall not on my sad clay face before ye; I look on His. I know My spirit which dilateth with the woe Of His mortality, May well contain your glory. Yea, drop your lids more low, Ye are but fellow-worshippers with me! Sleep, sleep, my worshipped One!

V.

We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem. The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Towards the newly born. The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonished hearing rung The strange, sweet angel-tongue. The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh and gold, These baby hands were impotent to hold. So, let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state! Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

VI.

I am not proud—meek angels, ye invest New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest On mortal lips,—"I am not proud"—not proud! Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, Albeit over Him my head is bowed As others bow before Him, still mine heart Bows lower than their knees. O centuries That roll, in vision, your futurities My future grave athwart,— Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep Watch o'er this sleep,— Say of me as the heavenly said,—"Thou art The blessedest of women!"—blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest,—no high name, Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame, When I sit meek in heaven!

VII.

For me—for me— God knows that I am feeble like the rest!— I often wandered forth, more child than maiden, Among the midnight hills of Galilee, Whose summits looked heaven-laden; Listening to silence as it seemed to be God's voice, so soft yet strong—so fain to press Upon my heart as heaven did on the height, And waken up its shadows by a light, And show its vileness by a holiness. Then I knelt down most silent like the night, Too self-renounced for fears, Raising my small face to the boundless blue Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears. God heard them falling after—with His dew.

VIII.

So, seeing my corruption, can I see. This Incorruptible now born of me This fair new Innocence no sun did chance To shine on, (for even Adam was no child,) Created from my nature all defiled, This mystery from out mine ignorance— Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more Than others do, or I did heretofore?— Can hands wherein such burden pure has been, Not open with the cry, "Unclean, unclean!" More oft than any else beneath the skies? Ah King, ah Christ, ah Son! The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise, Must all less lowly wait Than I, upon thy state!— Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

IX.

Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe, Come, crown me Him a king! Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling Their light where fell a curse. And make a crowning for this kingly brow!— What is my word?—Each empyreal star Sits in a sphere afar In shining ambuscade: The child-brow, crowned by none, Keeps its unchildlike shade. Sleep, sleep, my crownless One!

X.

Unchildlike shade!—no other babe doth wear An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.— No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen, To float like speech the speechless lips between; No dovelike cooing in the golden air, No quick short joys of leaping babyhood. Alas, our earthly good In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee: Yet, sleep, my weary One!

XI.

And then the drear, sharp tongue of prophecy, With the dread sense of things which shall be done, Doth smite me inly, like a sword—a sword?— (That "smites the Shepherd!") then I think aloud The words "despised,"—"rejected,"—every word Recoiling into darkness as I view The darling on my knee. Bright angels,—move not!—lest ye stir the cloud Betwixt my soul and His futurity! I must not die, with mother's work to do, And could not live—and see.

XII.

It is enough to bear This image still and fair— This holier in sleep, Than a saint at prayer: This aspect of a child Who never sinned or smiled— This presence in an infant's face: This sadness most like love, This love than love more deep, This weakness like omnipotence, It is so strong to move! Awful is this watching place, Awful what I see from hence— A king, without regalia, A God, without the thunder, A child, without the heart for play; Ay, a Creator rent asunder From His first glory and cast away On His own world, for me alone To hold in hands created, crying—Son!

XIII.

That tear fell not on Thee Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in Thy slumber! Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out of number Which through the vibratory palm-trees run From summer wind and bird, So quickly hast Thou heard A tear fall silently?— Wak'st Thou, O loving One?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

FOOTNOTE:

[M] It is a Jewish tradition that Moses died of the kisses of God's lips.



A BEDSIDE DITTY.

Baby, baby dear, Earth and heaven are near Now, for heaven is here.

Heaven is every place Where your flower-sweet face Fills our eyes with grace.

Till your own eyes deign Earth a glance again, Earth and heaven are twain.

Now your sleep is done, Shine, and show the sun Earth and heaven are one.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.



GIVEN BACK ON CHRISTMAS MORN.

(A MOTHER WATCHES BY HER SICK BABE.)

Round about the casement Wail the winds of winter; Shaken from the frozen eaves Many an icy splinter. On the hillside, in the hollow, Weaving wreaths of snow: Now in gusts of solemn music Lost in murmurs low; Howling now across the wold In its shroudlike vastness, Like the wolves about a fold In some Alpine fastness, Hungered by the cold.

(THE MOTHER SINGS.)

Babe of mine—babe of mine, Must I lose you? Dare I weep if the Divine Will should choose you?— Ah, to mourn, as I have smiled, At the thought of you, my child! Ah, my child—my child!

Babe of mine—you entwine With existence! If one strips the clinging vine There's resistance— Shall not I then——? I talk wild, Seeing Death so near my child:— Ah, my child—my child!

Babe of mine—heart's best wine— Life's pure essence! Gloomy shadows, that define Death's near presence. Dim those dear eyes, undefiled As God's violets—ah, my child: Ah, my child—my child!

The imperial purple of the night Is spread, wine-dark, above, But glistens with no gems of light, To hint of Heaven's love. A sombre pall hangs overhead, Fringed with lurid clouds of lead,— O'er the sleeping earth below One long, wide waste of silent snow, And the wind moans drearily As it wanders by, And the night wanes wearily In the starlight sky.

(THE MOTHER SINGS.)

Must the dear eyes close? Must the lips be still?— How I love their speech that flows Like a wanton rill! Must those cheeks, soft-tinged with rose, Pallid grow and chill? Give her back to me, angel in disguise! So your mystery I shall learn—yet with tearless eyes. By the pangs, the prayers, By the mother's glee, By her hopes, her fears, her cares, Give my child to me— Give it back to me!

Quenched the eye's soft light, Hushed the cowslip breath! Going, darling, in the night? Spare—oh, spare her, Death! Dying—is it so? Oh, it must not be! Can my one poor treasure go? Give her back to me, Give her back to me: Or take me too,—left alone, Now my little one is gone; Ah, my child, my child!

Among the clouds that sail o'erhead A yellow radiance is shed; And o'er the hill-tops wrapt in snow, Is born a tinge of rosy glow. Within the air a stir—like wings Of angels in their minist'rings; A tremulous motion, and a thrill, As with faint light the heavens fill. Night's sombre clouds are slow withdrawn, And nature cries, Awake, 'tis dawn.

About the lonely casement Blows fresh the breath of day;— The mother, in amazement, Sees death-glooms fade away!

The blue eyes open once again, Once more the lips have smiled— Her tears fell like the spring-time rain: God gives her back her child!

Hush, there are footsteps on the snow, That pause the lattice-pane below; While voices chant the carol-rhymes, The Christmas song of olden times:

Awake, good Christians! Long ago The shepherds waked at night, And saw the heavens with glory glow, And angels in the light. Hosanna! sing, Hosanna! sing, Hosanna in the height!

New life they told to all on earth, New life and blessing bright, Forewarning of the Saviour's birth, In Bethlehem this night. Hosanna! sing, Hosanna! sing, Hosanna in the height!

New life to all,—new life to all,— The tidings good recite! New life to all, which did befall At Bethlehem this night. Hosanna! sing, Hosanna! sing, Hosanna in the height!

The voices hushed—the footsteps died In distance far aloof, It seemed a blessing did abide Upon that silent roof, As far away their cheery singing Upon the frosty air came ringing.

Among the clouds that sail o'erhead A yellow glory is outspread; And on the hill-tops crowned with snows, A rosy blushing radiance grows, As wider still the warm light glows: And flooding daylight falls again From cloud to hill—from hill to plain.

A golden sea of swimming light Poured o'er the sombre shores of night, While the glad mother, to her breast Her child yet close and closer pressed, Her rescued treasure—newly born— Her babe—given back on Christmas morn.

Thomas Hood.



A LULLING SONG.

Hush! 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 His Virgin-Mother by.

See the lovely Babe a-dressing; Lovely Infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the Mother's blessing Soothed and hush'd the holy Child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the horned oxen fed; —Peace, my darling, here's no danger; Here's no ox a-near thy bed!

May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell forever 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.



GOOD-NIGHT.

Good-night, good-night, the day is done; Rock, rock the cradle, little one; The lamp is low, and low the sun, Good-night!

Good-night, good-night, the Christmas bough Bends to the rocking wind, and thou To mother's ditty noddest now, Good-night!

Good-night, good-night, the holy day Bring baby sweets, and sweets alway! Rock, rock—then, tiptoe, steal away, Good-night!

H. S. M.

END OF BOOK III.



Transcriber's Notes:

A number of the poems contain archaic and varied spelling. This has been left as printed, with the exception of the following few printer errors:

Page 51—nothin.' amended to nothin'.—"Jes sayin' nothin'. That was why ..."

Page 59—joyfulst amended to joyful'st—"So, now is come our joyful'st feast,"

Page 70—convivo amended to convivio—"Quot estis in convivio."

Illustrations have been shifted slightly, so that they are not in the middle of poems. Captions have been added from the List of Illustrations. The first illustration was located as a frontispiece in the book, but has been moved closer to the page number given in the List of Illustrations here.

Page 97 contains the line "Bears home the huge unwieldly logs,"—unwieldly may or may not be a printer error, so it has been left as printed.

Page 152 contains the line "The Phoenix builds the Phoenix nest,"—the oe in both occurrences of Phoenix was printed as a ligature, which has not been retained for this text version.

THE END