[Sung as by the three kings.]
_1st King._
Bright Babe! whose awful beauties make
The morn incur a sweet mistake;
_2nd King._
For whom the officious heavens devise
To disinherit the sun’s rise;
_3rd King._
Delicately to displace
The day, and plant it fairer in thy face;
_1st King._
O Thou born King of loves!
_2nd King._ Of lights!
_3rd King._ Of joys!
_Chorus._
Look up, sweet Babe, look up and see!
For love of Thee,
Thus far from home,
The East is come
To seek herself in Thy sweet eyes.
_1st King._
We who strangely went astray,
Lost in a bright
Meridian night;
_2nd King._
A darkness made of too much day;
_3rd King._
Beckoned from far,
By thy fair star,
Lo, at last have found our way.
_Chorus._
To thee, thou Day of Night; thou East of West!
Lo, we at last have found the way
To thee, the world’s great universal East,
The general and indifferent day.
_1st King._
All-circling point! all-centring sphere!
The world’s one, round, eternal year:
_2nd King._
Whose full and all-unwrinkled face,
Nor sinks nor swells, with time or place;
_3rd King._
But everywhere and every while
Is one consistent solid smile.
_1st King._
Not vexed and tost,
_2nd King._
’Twixt spring and frost;
_3rd King._
Nor by alternate shreds of light,
Sordidly shifting hands with shades and night.
_Chorus._
O little All, in Thy embrace,
The world lies warm and likes his place;
Nor does his full globe fail to be
Kissed on both his cheeks by Thee;
Time is too narrow for Thy year,
Nor makes the whole world Thy half-sphere.
* * * * *
Therefore, to Thee, and Thine auspicious ray,
(Dread sweet!), lo thus,
At least by us,
The delegated eye of day,
Does first his sceptre, then himself, in solemn tribute pay;
Thus he undresses
His sacred unshorn tresses;
At thy adorèd feet thus he lays down,
_1st King._
His glorious tire
Of flame and fire,
_2nd King._ His glittering robe,
_3rd King._ His sparkling crown,
_1st King._ His gold,
_2nd King._ His myrrh,
_3rd King._ His frankincense.
_Chorus._
To which he now has no pretence;
For being show’d by this day’s light, how far
He is from sun, enough to make thy star,
His best ambition now is but to be
Something a brighter shadow, sweet! of thee.
Or on heaven’s azure forehead high to stand,
Thy golden index; with a duteous hand
Pointing us home to our own Sun,
The world’s and his Hyperion.
RICHARD CRASHAW