Heaven’s golden-wingèd herald late he saw
To a poor Galilean virgin sent:
How long the bright youth bowed, and with what awe
Immortal flowers to her fair hand present.
He saw th’ old Hebrew’s womb neglect the law
Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent
His birth by his devotion, who began
Betimes to be a saint, before a man.
He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour
Of th’ icy north, from frost-bound Atlas’ hands
His adamantine fetters fall; green vigour
Gladding the Scythian rocks and Libyan sands.
He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure
Winter’s sad face, and through the flowery lands
Of fair Engaddi’s honey-sweating fountains
With manna, milk, and balm new broach the mountains.
He saw how in that blest day-bearing night
The heaven rebukèd shades made haste away;
How bright a dawn of angels with new light
Amazed the midnight world, and made a day
Of which the morning knew not; mad with spight
He mark’d how the poor shepherds ran to pay
Their simple tribute to the Babe, whose birth
Was the great business both of heaven and earth.
He saw a threefold sun with rich increase
Make proud the ruby portals of the East,
He saw the temple sacred to sweet peace
Adore her Prince’s birth flat on her breast.
He saw the falling idols all confess
A coming Deity. He saw the nest
Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst,
Touch’d with the world’s true antidote, to burst.
He saw heaven blossom with a new-born light,
On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed
The golden eyes of night, whose beam made bright
The way to Bethlem; and as boldly blazed
(Nor ask’d leave of the sun) by day as night.
By whom (as heaven’s illustrious handmaid) raised
Three kings or, what is more, three wise men went
Westward to find the world’s true orient.
* * * * *
That the great angel-blinding light should shrink
His blaze to shine in a poor shepherd’s eye,
That the unmeasured God so low should sink
As Pris’ner in a few poor rags to lie,
That from His mother’s breast He milk should drink
Who feeds with nectar heaven’s fair family,
That a vile manger His low bed should prove
Who in a throne of stars thunders above:
That He, whom the sun serves, should faintly peep
Through clouds of infant flesh; that He the old
Eternal Word should be a Child and weep,
That He who made the fire should fear the cold:
That heaven’s high majesty His court should keep
In a clay cottage, by each blast controll’d:
That glory’s self should serve our griefs and fears,
And free Eternity submit to years;
And further, that the law’s eternal Giver
Should bleed in His own law’s obedience;
And to the circumcising knife deliver
Himself, the forfeit of His slave’s offence;
That the unblemish’d Lamb, blessed for ever,
Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense:—
These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt
Entangle his lost thoughts past getting out.
RICHARD CRASHAW
(from _Sospetto d’Herode_)