_Chorus._
Come we shepherds whose blest sight
Hath met Love’s noon in Nature’s night,
Come, lift we up our loftier song,
And wake the sun that lies too long.
To all our world of well-stol’n joy,
He slept and dreamt of no such thing,
While we found out heaven’s fairer eye
And kist the cradle of our King;
Tell him he rises now too late,
To show us aught worth looking at.
Tell him we now can show him more
Than e’er he showed to mortal sight,
Than he himself e’er saw before,
Which to be seen needs not his light.
Tell him, Tityrus, where th’ hast been,
Tell him, Thyrsis, what th’ hast seen.
_Tityrus._
Gloomy night embraced the place
Where the noble Infant lay,
The Babe looked up and showed His face;
In spite of darkness it was day.
It was Thy day, Sweet, and did rise
Not from the East but from Thine eyes.
_Chorus._—It was Thy day, Sweet, &c.
_Thyrsis._
Winter chid aloud and sent
The angry North to wage his wars,
The North forgot his fierce intent,
And left perfumes instead of scars;
By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers,
Where he meant frost he scattered flowers.
_Chorus._—By those sweet eyes, &c.
_Both._
We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
Bright dawn of our eternal day!
We saw Thine eyes break from their East
And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
_Tityrus._
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?
Contend, ye powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.
_Chorus._—Contend, ye powers, &c.
_Thyrsis._
Proud world (said I), cease your contest,
And let the mighty Babe alone,
The Phoenix builds the Phoenix’ nest,
Love’s architecture is all one.
The Babe whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed ere He was born.
_Chorus._—The Babe whose birth, &c.
_Tityrus._
I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow,
Come hovering o’er the place’s head,
Offering 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.
_Chorus._—Forbear (said I), &c.
_Thyrsis._
I saw the obsequious seraphins
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?
_Chorus._—Well done (said I), &c.
_Tityrus._
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’s mother’s breasts is gone to bed:
Sweet choice (said I), no way but so,
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.
_Chorus._—Sweet choice (said I), &c.
_Both._
We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
Bright dawn of our eternal day!
We saw Thine eyes break from their East
And chase the trembling shades away;
We saw Thee and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
_Chorus._—We saw Thee, &c.
_Full Chorus._
Welcome all wonder in one sight,
Eternity shut in a span,
Summer in winter, day in night,
Heaven in earth and God in man!
Great little One! whose all-embracing birth
Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.
Welcome, though not to gold nor silk
To more than Caesar’s birthright is,
Two sister seas of virgin milk,
With many a rarely-tempered kiss,
That breathes at once both maid and mother,
Warms in the one and cools in the other.
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:
She ’gainst those mother-diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle’s eyes.
Welcome, though not to those gay flies
Gilded i’ the beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes,
But to poor shepherds’ home-spun things;
Whose wealth’s their flock, whose wit to be
Well read in their simplicity.
Yet when young April’s husband-showers
Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,
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 more than they their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty! soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves,
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves,
Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.
RICHARD CRASHAW