Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
John Milton. 16081674307. 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, | 5 |
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 | 10 |
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 | 15 |
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 | 20 |
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 | 25 |
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, | 30 |
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: | 35 |
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. | 40 |
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, | 45 |
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, | 50 |
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 | 55 |
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, | 60 |
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 | 65 |
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 | 70 |
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, | 75 |
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. | 80 |
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, | 85 |
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, | 90 |
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, | 95 |
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 | 100 |
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 | 105 |
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, | 110 |
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, | 115 |
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. | 120 |
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; | 125 |
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 | 130 |
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, | 135 |
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 | 140 |
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, | 145 |
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. | 150 |
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; | 155 |
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. | 160 |
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 | 165 |
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, | 170 |
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, | 175 |
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, | 180 |
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 | 185 |
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, | 190 |
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; | 195 |
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. | 200 |
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, | 205 |
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. | 210 |
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, | 215 |
Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable. |