A CRADLE SONG OF THE FIRST CENTURY.
Many authorities pronounce this lullaby to be of the earliest Christian
era. Some believe that in times of yore the Virgin herself sang it to
the infant Jesus.
"Sleep, O son, sleep,
Thy mother sings to her firstborn;
Sleep, O boy, sleep,
Thy father cries out to his little child.
Thousands of praises we sing to thee,
A thousand thousand thousands.
"Sleep, my heart and my throne,
Sleep, thou joy of thy mother;
Let a soothing, hushed lullaby
Come murmuring to thy heavenly ears.
Thousands of praises we sing to thee,
A thousand thousand thousands.
"May nothing be wanting to thee,
With roses I will cover thee,
With violet garlands I will entwine thee.
Thy bed shall be among the hyacinthus,
Thy cradle built up with the petals of white lilies.
Thousands of praises we sing to thee,
A thousand thousand thousands.
"If thou wishest for music
I will instantly call together the shepherds.
None are before them,
No mortal sings more holy songs.
Thousands of praises we sing to thee,
A thousand thousand thousands."
If aught be distinct in this early Christian lullaby, it is that
old-time ideas of "stars on high," "the sky is full of sleep," and
other similar figures of mythical word-pictures are wanting. A mother's
sympathy and affection alone bind together the words of her song in
illimitable praises--a thousand thousand thousands.
Milton says--
"But see the Virgin blest
Hath laid her babe to rest."
What a bright sanctified glory the child King brought to his baby
throne.
"Thee in all children, the eternal child. Thee to whom the wise men
gave adoration, and the shepherds praise."
What countless hosts of child-bands are ever singing some dreamy lullaby
of praise to their child King.
In the pastoral district of Vallauria, in the heart of the Ligurian
Alps, within a day's journey from the orange groves of Mentone, a
yearly festival takes place, when the children of the mountains sing a
stanza recalling the Virgin's song--
"If thou wishest for music I will instantly call together the
shepherds. None are before them."
"Lo! the shepherd band draws nigh,
Horns they play,
Thee, their King, to glorify,
Rest thee, my soul's delight."
No lyrics of the nursery have come down to us fashioned after the
first-century song of the Virgin. The older types have survived, and in
such an unvarying mould have they been cast that there is in each
European country's song the same old pagan imagery obstinately repeating
itself in spite of Christianity, so that the songs of the Christian
Church became exclusively the hymns of her faithful people, the carols
of her festivals, and in the Middle Ages the libretto of her Church
mystery plays, setting forth her history and doctrines to the lower
orders. If one were to remove the obstacles of idiom and grammar in the
poetry of France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Switzerland, or even Russia,
and expose the subject of the theme, a mere skeleton of past delusions
would remain.
Long before modern European nations received this imagery of past
credulities the poets of Greece and Rome had versified the same old-time
beliefs. Before Rome was founded the Etruscan race, who flourished in
what is now modern Tuscany, had the Books of the Tages fashioned in
rhythmical mould, from which their traditions, ordinances, and religious
teachings were drawn. They believed in genii as fervently as a Persian.
Here is one Etruscan legend of the nursery, recalling
"How the wondrous boy-Tages sprang out of the soil just previously
turned over by the plough in the fields of Tarquinii, and
communicated to Lucamones the doctrines of divination, by sacrifice,
by flight of birds, and by observation of the lightning, a son of
genius and grandson of Jupiter."--_Cic. de Divin._ ii. 23.
It was the ancient tale of "Jack and the Beanstalk."