She knew such harmony alone

Could hold all heaven and earth in happy union.

At last surrounds their sight

A globe of circular light,

That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed; The helmed cherubim,

And sworded seraphim,

Are seen in glitering ranks with wings displayed, 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 welt'ring 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 base of heaven's deep organ blow;

And with your ninefold harmony

Make up full consort to th' angelic symphony.

For, if such holy song

Inwrap our fancy long,

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckled vanity

Will sicken soon and lie,

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,

Orb'd 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,

This must not yet be so,

The Babe yet lies, in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross

Must redeem our loss;

So both Himself and us to glorify;

Yet first to those ychain'd 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 out break;

The aged 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 tall.

The oracles are dumb,

No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No mighty 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:

With flow'r-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 Pow'r foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice batter'd 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 lef, in shadows dread

His turning 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 unshower'd grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest,

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud! In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne ;

Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Not 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,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chain upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale

Troop to th' infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fayes

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 teemed star

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

Her sleeping lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable

Bright harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

KEBLE

WHAT sudden blaze of song

Spreads o'er th' expanse of heaven?

In waves of light it thrills along,

Th' angelic signal given

"Glory to God!" from yonder central fire

Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry quire;

Like circles widening round

Upon a clear blue river,

Orb after orb, the wondrous sound

Is echoed on for ever:

* Glory to God on high, on earth be peace,

And love towards men of love-salvation and release."

Yet stay, before thou dare

To join that festal throng;

Listen and mark what gentle air,

First stirr'd the tide of song;

"Tis not, "The Saviour born in David's home,

To whom for power and health obedient worlds should come :"

"Tis not, "The Christ the Lord"

With fix'd adoring look

The choir of angels caught the word,

Nor yet their silence broke.

But when they heard the sign, where Christ should be,

In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.

Wrapp'd in His swaddling bands,

And in His manger laid,

The Hope and Glory of all lands

Is come to the world's aid:

No peaceful home upon his cradle smiled,

Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child.

But where thou dwellest, Lord,

No other thought should be, Once duly welcomed and adored,

How should I part with Thee?

Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace
The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place.

Thee, on the bosom laid

Of a pure virgin mind,

In quiet ever, and in shade,

Shepherd and sage may find;

They who have bow'd untaught to Nature's sway,
And they who follow truth along her star-paved way.

The pastoral spirits first

Approach Thee, Babe divine,

For they in lowly thoughts are nursed,

Meet for thy lowly shrine:

Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell, Angels from heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.

Still as the day comes round

For Thee to be reveal'd,

By wakeful shepherds Thou art found

Abiding in the field.

All through the wintry heaven and chill night air,

In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.

Think on th' eternal home,

The Saviour left for you;

Think on the Lord most holy, come

To dwell with hearts untrue:

So shall He tread untired His pastoral ways,

And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.