Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Richard Crashaw. 1613?1649340. Verses from the Shepherds’ Hymn
WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, | |
Young dawn of our eternal day; | |
We saw Thine eyes break from the East, | |
And chase the trembling shades away: | |
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, | 5 |
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. | |
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? | 10 |
Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, | |
To fit a bed for this huge birth. | |
Proud world, said I, cease your contest, | |
And let the mighty babe alone; | |
The phoenix builds the phoenix’ nest, | 15 |
Love’s architecture is His own. | |
The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, | |
Made His own bed ere He was born. | |
I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow, | |
Come hovering o’er the place’s head, | 20 |
Off’ring 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. | |
I saw th’ obsequious seraphim | 25 |
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? | 30 |
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 mother’s breasts is gone to bed! | |
Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, | 35 |
Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow! | |
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. | 40 |
She ‘gainst those mother diamonds tries | |
The points of her young eagle’s eyes. | |
Welcome—tho’ not to those gay flies, | |
Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings, | |
Slippery souls in smiling eyes— | 45 |
But to poor shepherds, homespun things, | |
Whose wealth ‘s their flocks, whose wit ‘s to be | |
Well read in their simplicity. | |
Yet, when young April’s husband show’rs | |
Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed, | 50 |
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 while they feed their sheep. | |
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King | 55 |
Of simple graces and sweet loves! | |
Each of us his lamb will bring, | |
Each his pair of silver doves! | |
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, | |
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice! | 60 |