No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood, Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng, eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, wave. The stars with deep amaze Bending one way their precious influence, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wontedspeed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed; The helmed cherubim, And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire, 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, 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. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, As all their souls in blissful rapture took : The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature, that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. (If ye Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears, 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; Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. For if such holy song, Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, Truth and Justice then Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; Will And Heaven, as at some festival, open wide the gates of her high palace hall. But wisest Fate says no, The babe lies yet in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both Himself and us to glorify : 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 brake: The aged earth aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne. But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending. Heav'n's youngest teemed star Hath fix'd her polished car Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable, Miltonic in aim and in tone, if not in reach of thought, is Robert Montgomery's HYMN OF THE ANGELS AT THE BIRTH OF Thou, Lord of lords, and Light of light, Ten thousand worlds around Thee blaze, Hail! Virgin-born, transcendant Child, By ages visioned, doomed to be Hail! Prince of Peace, and Lord of Light |