'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 6 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. The Epitaph Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. T. GRAY. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY THIS is the month, and this the happy morn That He our deadly forfeit should release, That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, Wherewith He wont at Heav'n's high council-table He laid aside; and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome Him to this His new abode, Now while the heav'n by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See how from far, upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at His blessèd feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel quire, From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. X THE HYMN It was the winter wild While the heav'n-born Child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathise : It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw, Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But He, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace; She crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung, The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood, The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng, And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sov'reign Lord was by. But peaceful was the night, His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. The stars with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd 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 wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd 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, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then 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. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringèd noise, 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, Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heav'n and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shamefac'd night array'd; The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, 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-balanc'd 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 bass of Heav'n'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, Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould |