On the Morning of Christ's Nativity 227 Harping in loud and solemn choir 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 bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort 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 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. But wisest Fate says No; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 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; 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 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 cracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 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 Edged with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent; On the Morning of Christ's Nativity 229 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 foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic 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 unshowered 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 timbrelled anthems dark The sable stolèd sorcerers bear his worshiped ark. He feels from Juda's land The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen; Longer dare abide Nor 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 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. 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 hand-maid lamp attending: Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable. John Milton [1608-1674] FAIRYLAND THE FAIRY BOOK In summer, when the grass is thick, if mother has the time, In winter, when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song, And crocuses and violets have been away too long, Dear mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look, And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook. And mother tells the servants that of course they must contrive To manage all the household things from four till halfpast five, For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook, When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairy.. book. Norman Gale [1862 FAIRY SONGS I From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream" OVER hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, |