LONGING.Ah, from out this valley hollow,By cold fogs always oppressed,Could I but the outpath follow—Ah, how were my spirit blest!Hills I see there, glad dominions,Ever young, and green for aye!Had I wings, oh, had I pinions,To the hills were I away!Harmonies I hear there ringing,Tones of sweetest heavenly rest;And the gentle winds are bringingBalmy odours to my breast!Golden fruits peep out there, glowingThrough the leaves to Zephyr’s play;And the flowers that there are blowingWill become no winter’s prey!Oh, what happy things are meetingThere, in endless sunshine free!And the airs on those hills greeting,How reviving must they be!But me checks yon raving riverThat betwixt doth chafe and roll;And its dark waves rising everStrike a horror to my soul!See a skiff on wild wave heaving!But no sailor walks the mole.Quick into it, firm believing,For its sails they have a soul!Thou must trust, nor wait to ponder:God will give no pledge in hand;Nought but miracle bears yonderTo the lovely wonderland!
POEMSLEGENDTHE CASTLE ON THE MOUNTAIN
POEMS.Poems are painted window-panes:Look from the square into the church—Gloom and dusk are all your gains!Sir Philistine is left in the lurch:Outside he stands—spies nothing or use of it,And nought is left him save the abuse of it.But you, I pray you, just step in;Make in the chapel your obeisance:All at once ‘tis a radiant pleasaunce:Device and story flash to presence;A gracious splendour works to win.This to God’s children is full measure:It edifies and gives them pleasure.
LEGEND.AFTER THE MANNER OF HANS SACHS.While yet unknown, and very low,Our Lord on earth went to and fro;And some of his scholars his word so goodVery strangely misunderstood—He much preferred to hold his courtIn streets and places of resort,Because under the heaven’s faceWords better and freer flow apace;There he gave them the highest loreOut of his holy mouth in store;Wondrously, by parable and example,Made every market-place a temple.So faring, in his heart content,Once with them to a town he went—Saw something blinking on the way,And there a broken horse-shoe lay!He said thereon St. Peter to,“Prithee now, pick up that shoe.”St. Peter was not in fitting mood:He had been dreaming all the roadSome stuff about ruling of the world,Round which so many brains are twirled—For in the head it seems so easy!And with it his thoughts were often busy;Therefore the finding was much too mean;Crown and sceptre it should have been!He was not one his back to bowAfter half an iron-shoe!Therefore aside his head he bended,And that he had not heard pretended.In his forbearance the Lord did stoopAnd lift himself the horse-shoe up;Then for the present he did wait.But when they reach the city-gate,He goes up to a blacksmith’s door,Receives three pence the horse-shoe for;And as they through the market fare,Seeing for sale fine cherries there,He buys of them so few or so manyAs they will give for a three-penny;Which he, thereon, after his way,Up in his sleeve did quietly lay.Now, from the other gate, they trodThrough fields and meads a housless road;The path of trees was desolate,The sun shone out, the heat was great;So that one in a region suchFor a drink of water had given much.The Lord goes ever before them all,And as by chance lets a cherry fall:In a trice St. Peter was after it thereAs if a golden apple it were!Sweet to his palate was the berry.Then by and by, another cherryDown on the ground the Master sends,For which St. Peter as quickly bends.So, many a time, the Lord doth letHim bend his back a cherry to get.A long time thus He let him glean;Then said the Lord, with look serene:“If at the right time thou hadst bent,Thou hadst found it more convenient!Of little things who little doth makeFor lesser things must trouble take.”
THE CASTLE ON THE MOUNTAIN.Up there, upon yonder mountain,Stands a castle old, in the gorse,Where once, behind doors and portals,Lurking lay knight and horse.Burnt are the doors and the portals;All round it is very still;Its old walls, tumbled in ruins,I scramble about at my will.Close hereby lay a cellarFull of wine that was old and rare;But the cheery maid with the pitchersNo more comes down the stair;No more in the hall, sedatelySets the beaker before the guest;No more at the festival stately,The flagon fills for the priest;No more to the page so thirstyGives a draught in the corridor;And receives for the hurried favourThe hurried thanks no more.For every rafter and ceilingLong ago were to ashes burned,And stair and passage and chapelTo rubbish and ruin turned.Yet when, with flask and cittern,On a day in the summer’s prime,Up to the rocky summitI watched my darling climb—Out came the old joy revivingOn the face of the ancient rest,And on went the old life driving,In its lordliness and zest;It seemed as for strangers distinguishedTheir state-rooms they did prepare,And out of that brave time, shadowyCame stepping a youthful pair.And the worthy priest in his chapelStood already in priestly dress,And asked—Will you two take one another?And smiling we answered—Yes;And the hymns with deep pulsationStirred every heart at once;And instead of the congregationThe echo yelled response.And when, in the gathered evening,Profound the stillness grew,And the red-glowing sun at the brokenGable came peering through,Then damsel and page, in his rays, areGrandees of the olden prime;She tastes of his cup at her leisure,And he to thank her takes time.
THE LOST CHURCHTHE DREAM
THE LOST CHURCH.In the far forest, overhead,A bell is often heard obscurely;How long since first, no one can tell—Nor can report explain it surely:From the lost church, the rumour hath,Out on the winds the ringing goeth;Once full of pilgrims was the path—Now where to find it, no one knoweth.Deep in the wood I lately wentWhere no foot-trodden way is lying;From times corrupt, on evil bent,My heart to God went out in sighing:There, in the wild wood’s deep repose,I heard the ringing somewhat nearer;The higher that my longing roseIts peal grew fuller and came clearer.My thoughts upon themselves did brood;My sense was with the sound so busyThat I have never understoodHow I did climb that steep so dizzy.It seemed more than a hundred yearsHad passed me over, dreaming, sighing—When far above the clouds appearsAn open space in sunlight lying.Dark-blue the heavens above it bowed;The sun was radiant, large, and glowing;And, see, a minister’s structure proudStood in the rich light, golden showing.The clouds around it, sunny-clear,Seemed bearing it aloft like pinions;Its spire-point seemed to disappear,Slow vanishing in heaven’s dominions.The bell’s clear tones, of rapture full,Boomed in the tower and made it quiver;No mortal hand that rope did pull—A dumb storm made it swing and shiver.It seemed to heave my throbbing breast,That heavenly storm with torrent blended:With wavering step, yet hopeful quest,Into the church my way I wended.What met me there as in I trodeWith syllables cannot be painted;Darksome yet clear, the windows glowedWith forms of all the martyrs sainted.Then saw I, radiantly unfurled,Form swell to life and break its barriers;I looked abroad into a worldOf holy women and God’s warriors.Down at the alter I kneeled soft,With love and prayer my heart allegiant:Upon the ceiling, far aloft,Was painted Heaven’s resplendent pageant;But when again I lift mine eyes,Lo, the high vault has flown asunder!The upward gate wide open lies,And every veil unveils a wonder.What gloriousness I then beheldWith silent worship, speechless wonder;What blessed sounds upon me swelled,Like organs’ and like trumpets’ thunder—No human words could ever tell!—But who for such is sighing sorest,Let him give heed unto the bellThat dimly soundeth in the forest.
THE DREAM.In a garden sweet went walkingTwo lovers hand in hand;Two pallid figures, low talking,They sat in the flowery land.They kissed on the cheek one another,And they kissed upon the mouth;They held in their arms each the other,And back came their health and youth.Two little bells rang shrilly—And the lovely dream was dead!She lay in the cloister chilly;He afar on his dungeon-bed.
LIEDER, IV.LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO, XXXVIII.“ “ XLI.“ “ XLV.“ “ LXIV.DIE HEIMKEHR, LX.“ LXII.DIE NORDSEE, FIRST CYCLE, XII.
LIEDER.IV.Thy little hand lay on my bosom, dear:What a knocking in that little chamber!—dost hear?There dwelleth a carpenter evil, and heIs hard at work on a coffin for me.He hammers and knocks by night and by day;‘Tis long since he drove all my sleep away:Ah, haste thee, carpenter, busy keep,That I the sooner may go to sleep!
LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.XXXVIII.The phantoms of times forgottenArise from out their grave,And show me how once in thy presenceI lived the life it gave.In the day I wandered dreaming,Through the streets with unsteady foot;The people looked at me in wonder,I was so mournful and mute.At night, then it was better,For empty was the town;I and my shadow togetherWalked speechless up and down.My way, with echoing footstep,Over the bridge I took;The moon broke out of the waters,And gave me a meaning look.I stopped before thy dwelling,And gazed, and gazed again—Stood staring up at thy window,My heart was in such pain.I know that thou from thy windowDidst often look downward—andSawest me, there in the moonlight,A motionless pillar stand.
LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.XLI.I dreamt of the daughter of a king,With white cheeks tear-bewetted;We sat ‘neath the lime tree’s leavy ring,In love’s embraces netted.“I would not have thy father’s throne,His crown or his golden sceptre;I want my lovely princess alone—From Fate that so long hath kept her.”“That cannot be,” she said to me:“I lie in the grave uncheerly;And only at night I come to thee,Because I love thee so dearly.”
LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.XLV.In the sunny summer morningInto the garden I come;The flowers are whispering and talking,But for me, I wander dumb.The flowers are whispering and talking;They pity my look so wan:“Thou must not be cross with our sister,Thou sorrowful, pale-faced man!”
LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.LXIV.Night lay upon mine eyelids;Upon my mouth lay lead;With rigid brain and bosom,I lay among the dead.How long it was I know notThat sleep oblivion gave;I wakened up, and, listening,Heard a knocking at my grave.“Tis time to rise up, Henry!The eternal day draws on;The dead are all arisen—The eternal joy’s begun.”“My love, I cannot raise me;For I have lost my sight;My eyes with bitter weepingThey are extinguished quite.”“From thy dear eyelids, Henry,I’ll kiss the night away;Thou shalt behold the angels,And Heaven’s superb display.”“My love, I cannot raise me;Still bleeds my bosom gored,Where thou heart-deep didst stab meWith a keen-pointed word.”“Soft I will lay it, Henry,My hand soft on thy heart;And that will stop its bleedingAnd soothe at once the smart.”“My love, I cannot raise me—My head is bleeding too;When thou wast stolen from meI shot it through and through!”“I with my tresses, Henry,Will stop the fountain red;Press back again the blood-stream,And heal thy wounded head.”She begged so sweetly, dearly,I could no more say no;I tried, I strove to raise me,And to my darling go.Then the wounds again burst open;With torrent force outbrakeFrom head and breast the blood-stream,And, lo, I came awake!
DIE HEIMKEHR.LX.They have company this evening,And the house is full of light;Up there at the shining windowMoves a shadowy form in white.Thou seest me not—in the darknessI stand here below, apart;Yet less, ah less thou seestInto my gloomy heart!My gloomy heart it loves thee,Loves thee in every spot:It breaks, it bleeds, it shudders—Butinto it thou seest not!
LXII.Diamonds hast thou, and pearls,And all by which men lay store;And of eyes thou hast the fairest—Darling, what wouldst thou more?Upon thine eyes so lovelyHave I a whole army-corpsOf undying songs composed—Dearest, what wouldst thou more?And with thine eyes so lovelyThou hast tortured me very sore,And hast ruined me altogether—Darling, what wouldst thou more?
DIE NORDSEEFIRST CYCLE.XII.PEACE.[Footnote: I have here used rimes although the original has none. Withnotions of translating severer now than when, many years ago, I attemptedthis poem, I should not now take such a liberty. In a few other pointsalso the translation is not quite close enough to please me; but it muststand.]High in heaven the sun was glowing,White cloud-waves were round him flowing;The sea was still and grey.Thinking in dreams, by the helm I lay:Half waking, half in slumber, thenSaw I Christ, the Saviour of men.In undulating garments whiteHe walked in giant shape and heightOver land and sea.High in the heaven up towered his head;His hands in blessing forth he spreadOver land and sea.And for a heart, in his breastHe bore the sun; there did it rest.The red, flaming heart of the LordOut its gracious radiance poured,Its fair and love-caressing lightWith illuminating and warming mightOver land and sea.Sounds of solemn bells that goThrough the air to and fro,Drew, like swans in rosy traces,With soft, solemn, stately graces,The gliding ship to the green shore—Peopled, for many a century hoar,By men who dwell at rest in a mightyFar-spreading and high-towered city.Oh, wonder of peace, how still was the town!The hollow tumult had all gone downOf the babbling and stifling trades;And through each clean and echoing streetWalked men and women, and youths and maids,White clothes wearing,Palm branches bearing;And ever and always when two did meet,They gazed with eyes that plain did tellThey understood each other well;And trembling, in self-renouncement and love,Each a kiss on the other’s forehead laid,And looked up to the Saviour’s sunheart above,Which, in joyful atoning, its red blood rayedDown upon all; and the people said,From hearts with threefold gladness blest,Lauded be Jesus Christ!
THE GRAVE.PSYCHE’S MOURNING.
THE GRAVE.The grave is deep and soundless,Its brink is ghastly lone;With veil all dark and boundlessIt hides a land unknown.The nightingale’s sweet closesDown there come not at all;And friendship’s withered rosesOn the mossy hillock fall.Their hands young brides forsakenWring bleeding there in vain;The cries of orphans wakenNo answer to their pain.Yet nowhere else for mortalsDwells their implored repose;Through none but those dark portalsHome to his rest man goes.The poor heart, here for everBy storm on storm beat sore,Its true peace gaineth neverBut where it beats no more.
PSYCHES MOURNING.Psyche moans, in deep-sunk, darksome prison,For redemption; ah! for light she aches;Fears, hopes, after every noise doth listen—Whether Fate her bars of iron breaks.Bound are Psyche’s pinions—airy, soaring;Yet high-hearted is she, groaning low;Knows that under clouds whence rain is pouringSprouts the palm that crowns the victor’s brow;Knows among the thorns the rose yet reigneth;Golden flowers spring from the desert graveShe her garland through denial gaineth,And her strength is steeled by winds that rave.‘Tis through lack that she her blisses buyeth;Sorrow’s dream comes true by longing long;Lest light break the sleep wherein she lieth,Round her tree of life the shadows throng.Psyche’s wail is but a fluted sadnessHeard from willows the moon silvereth;Psyche’s tears are dews of morning redness,And her sighs the sweet night-violet’s breath!Yews o’ershade the myrtle of her probation;Much she loves for great has been her dole;Love leads through the paths of separation,Leads her to reunion’s joyous goal.She endures; bravely bears every burden,Dumb before the will of Fate bends low;Lies her bliss the patient tranquil word in;Her one cordial, feeling’s overflow!Preconviction—ah! the call, the token,Spreading wings the darksome sky to cleave!‘Tis but boding! ‘tis but knowledge broken!Truth’s but what she truly doth believe!Darkness hides the goal of Psyche’s mission;For the eyes that tears so often gallReach not to the summit of completionWhere illusion’s vaporous veil doth fall!
THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLECONTENTMENT
THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE.Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure;Thy father’s very miniature!That art thou, though thy father goesAnd says that thou hast not his nose.This very moment here was he,His face o’er thine did poseAnd said—Much has he sure of me,But no, ‘tis not my nose.I think myself, it is too small,But it ishisnose after all;For if thy nose his nose be not,Whence came the nose that thou hast got?Sleep, boy! thy father only choseTo tease me—that’s his part!Never you mind about his nose,But see you have his heart.
CONTENTMENT.I am content. In triumph’s toneMy song, let people know!And many a mighty man, with throneAnd sceptre, is not so.And if he is, why then, I cry,The man is just the same as I.The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show,The hero’s bliss, who, vextTo find no other world below,Up to the moon looked next—I’d none of them; for things like thatAre only fit for laughing at.My motto is—Content with this.Gold—rank—I prize not such.That which I have, my measure is;Wise men desire not much.Men wish and wish, and have their will,And wish again, as hungry still.And gold or honour, though it rings,Is but a brittle glass;Experience of changing thingsMight teach a very ass!Right often Many turns to None,And honour has but a short run.To do right, to be good and clear,Is more than rank and gold;Then art thou always of good cheer,And blisses hast untold;Then art thou with thyself at one,And hatest no man, fearest none.I am content. In triumph’s tone,My song, let people know!And many a mighty man, with throneAnd sceptre, is not so.And if he is, why then, I cry,The man is just the same as I.
THREE PAIRS AND ONE.You have two ears—and but one mouth:Let this, friend, be a token—Much should be heard, and not so muchBe spoken.You have two eyes—and but one mouth:That is an indication—Much must you see, but little servesRelation.You have two hands—and but one mouth:Receive the hint you meet with—For labour two, but only oneTo eat with.
SONG OF THE LONELY.Son, first-born, at home abiding!All without is cold and bare:Hide me from the tempest’s chidingWarm beside the Father’s chair.I am homesick, Lord of splendour!Twilight fills my soul with fright:Let thy countenance befriend her,Shining from the halls of light.I am homesick, loving Father!Long years hath the pain increased:Soon, oh soon! thy children gatherTo the endless marriage-feast.
PART I. SONNET LIX.I am so weary with the burden oldOf foregone faults, and power of custom base,That much I fear to perish from the ways,And fall into my enemy’s grim fold.True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold,Came, of ineffable and utmost grace—Then straightway vanished from before my face,So that in vain I strive him to behold.But his voice yet comes echoing below:O ye that labour, the way open lies!Come unto me lest some one shut the gate!—What heavenly grace—what love will—or what fate—The pinions of a dove on me bestowThat I may rest, and from the earth arise?
PART II. SONNET LXXV.The elect angels and the souls in bliss,The citizens of heaven, when, that first day,My lady passed from me and went their way,Of marvel and pity full, did round her press.“What light is this, and what new loveliness?”They said among them; “for such sweet displayDid never mount, that from the earth did strayTo this high dwelling, all this age, we guess!”[1]She, well content her lodging chang’d to find,Shows perfect, by her peers most perfect placed;And now and then half turning looks behindTo see if I walk in the way she traced:Hence I lift heavenward all my heart and mindBecause I hear her pray me to make haste.[Footnote 1: Pure English of Petrarch’s time.]
The Italian scholar will understand that the retention of the femininerimes in translation from this language is an impossibility.
I.O Lady fair, whose honoured name doth graceGreen vale and noble ford of Rheno’s stream—Of all worth void the man I surely deemWhom thy fair soul enamoureth not apace,When softly self-revealed to time and spaceBy actions sweet with which thy will doth teem,And fair gifts that Love’s bow and arrows seem—But are the flowers that crown thy perfect race.When thou dost lightsome talk or gladsome sing,—A power to draw the hill-trees, rooted hard—The doors of eyes and ears let that man keepWho knows himself unworthy thy regard!Grace from above alone him help can bringThat Passion in his heart strike not too deep.
II.As in the twilight brown, on hillside bare,Useth to go the little shepherd maid,Watering some strange fair plant, poorly displayed,Ill thriving in unwonted soil and airFar from its native springtime’s genial care;So on my ready tongue hath Love assayedIn a strange speech to wake new flower and blade,While I of thee, proud yet so debonair,Sing songs whose sense is to my people lost—Yield the fair Thames, and the fair Arno gain.Love willed it so, and I, at others’ cost,Already knew Love never willed in vain:Would my heart slow and bosom hard were foundTo him who plants from heaven so fair a ground!
III.CANZONE.Ladies, and youths that in their favour bask,With mocking smiles come round me: Prithee, why,Why dost thou with an unknown language cope,Love-riming? Whence thy courage for the task?Tell us—so never frustrate be thy hope,And the best thought still to thy thinking fly!Thus me they mock: Thee other streams, they cry,Thee other shores, another sea demandsUpon whose verdant strandsAre budding, even this moment, for thy hairImmortal guerdon, bays that will not die:An over-burden on thy back why bear?—Song, I will tell thee; thou for me reply:My lady saith—and her word is my heart—This is Love’s mother-tongue, and fits his part.
IV.Diodati—and I muse to tell the tale—This stubborn I, that Love was wont despiseAnd make a laughter of his snares, unwise,Am fallen—where honest feet will sometimes fail.Not golden tresses, not a cheek vermeil,Dazzle me thus; but, in a new-world guise,A foreign Fair my heart beatifies—With mien where high-souled modesty I hail;Eyes softly splendent with a darkness dear;A speech that more than one tongue vassal hath;A voice that in the middle hemisphereMight make the tired moon wander from her path;While from her eyes such gracious flashes shootThat stopping hard my ears were little boot.
V.Certes, my lady sweet, your blessed eyes—It cannot be but that they are my sun;As strong they smite me as he smites uponThe man whose way o’er Libyan desert lies,The while a vapour hot doth me surpriseFrom that side springing where my pain doth won:Perchance accustomed lovers—I am noneAnd know not—in their speech call such things sighs:A part shut in, sore vexed, itself conceals,And shakes my bosom; part, undisciplined,Breaks forth, and all around to ice congeals;But that which to mine eyes the way doth find,Makes all my nights in silent showers abound,Until my dawn.[1] returns, with roses crowned.[Footnote 1:Alba—where I suspect a hint at the lady’s name.]
VI.A modest youth, in love a simpleton,When to escape myself I seek and shift,Lady, I of my heart the humble giftVow unto thee. In trials many a one,True, brave, I’ve found it, firm to things begun;By gracious, prudent, worthy thoughts uplift.When roars the great world, in the thunder-rift,Its own self, armour adamant, it will don,From chance and envy as securely barred,From fears and hopes that still the crowd abuse,As inward gifts and high worth coveting,And the resounding lyre, and every Muse:There only wilt thou find it not so hardWhere Love hath fixed his ever cureless sting.
DAME MUSIC.Of all the joys earth possesses,None the gladness fine surpassesWhich I give you with my singing,And with much harmonious ringing.An evil spirit cannot dwellWhere companions are singing well;Here strife, wrath, envy, hate, are not;Every heartache must leave the spot:Greed, care, all things that hard oppressTroop off with great unwillingness.Also each man is free to this—For such a joy no trespass is,God himself pleasing better farThan all the joys on earth that are;It breaks the toils by Satan spun,And many a murder keeps undone.Of this, King David is the proof,Who often Saul did hold aloof,All with his harping sweet and well,That he not into murder fell.For God’s own truth, in word and willIt makes the heart ready and still;That knew Elisha well, I wot,When he the Spirit by harping got.The best time of the year is mine,When all the little birds sing fine,Fill heaven and earth full of their strain:Much good singing is going then;The nightingale the lead she takes,And everything right merry makesWith her gladsome lovely song,For which great thanks to her belong.But more to our dear Lord God, much,Who has created the bird such,A songstress of the true right sort,A mistress of the music-art:She sings and springs, both nights and days,To him, not weary of his praise.Him lauding come my songs as well,My everlasting thanks to tell.
LUTHER’S SONG-BOOK.
I. ADVENTII. CHRISTMASIII. EPIPHANYIV. EASTERV. PENTECOSTVI. THE TRINITYVII. THE CHURCH AND WORD OF GODVIII. GRACEIX. THE COMMANDMENTSX. THE CREEDXI. PRAYERXII. BAPTISMXIII. REPENTANCEXIV. THE LORD’S SUPPERXV. DEATHXVI. THE PRAISE OF GODOF LIFE AT COURT
I. ADVENT.Come, saviour of nations wild,Of the maiden owned the childThat may wonder all the earthGod should grant it such a birth.Not of man’s flesh or man’s bloodOnly of the Spirit of GodIs God’s Word a man become,And blooms the fruit of woman’s womb.Maiden, she was found with child,Nor was chastity defiled;Many a virtue from her shone:God was there upon his throne.From that chamber of content,Royal palace pure, he went;God by kind, in human graceForth he comes to run his race.From the Father came his road,And returns again to God;Unto hell it did go down,Up then to the Father’s throne.Thou, the Father’s form express,Get thee victory in the flesh,That thy godlike power in usMake sick flesh victorious.Shines thy manger bright and fair;Sets the night a new star there:Darkness thence must keep away;Faith dwells ever in the day.Honour unto God be done;Honour to his only son;Honour to the Holy Ghost,Now, and ever, ending not. Amen.
II. CHRISTMAS.I.Jesus we now must laud and sing,The maiden Mary’s son and king,Far as the blessed sun doth shine,And reaches to earth’s utmost line.[1][Footnote 1: Luther’s own construction.]The blessed maker of all we viewOn him a servant’s body drew,The flesh to save at flesh’s cost,Else his creation had been lost.From heaven high the Godlike graceIn the chaste mother found a place;A secret pledge a maiden bore—A thing to earth unknown before.The tender heart, house modest, low,Straightway a temple of God did grow:Whom never man hath touched or knownBy God’s word she with child is grown.The noble mother hath brought forthWhom Gabriel promised to the earth;Him John did greet in joyous wayWhile in his mother’s womb he lay.Right poorly lies in hay the boy;Th’ hard manger him did not annoy;A little milk made him contentAway who no bird hungry sent.Therefore the heavenly choir is loud;The angels sing their praise to God,And tell poor men their flocks who keepHe’s come who made and keeps their sheep.Praise, honour, thanks, to thee be said,Christ Jesus, born of holy maid!With God the Father and Holy Ghost,Now and for ever, ending not. Amen!
II.A Song of Praise for the Birth of our Lord Jesus Christ.Praised be thou, O Jesus Christ,That a man on earth thou liest!Born of a maiden—it is true—In this exults the heavenly crew.Kyrioleis.[2][Footnote 2: (Greek) kurie elxaeson:Lord, have mercy.]The Father’s only son begotIn the manger has his cot,In our poor dying flesh and bloodDoth mask itself the eternal Good.Kyrioleis.Whom all the world could not enwrapLieth he in Mary’s lap;A little child he now is grownWho everything upholds alone.Kyrioleis.In him the eternal light breaks through,Gives the world a glory new;A great light shines amid the night,And makes us children of the light.Kyrioleis.The Father’s son, soGodhis name,A guest into this world he came;And leads us from the vale of tears:He in his palace make us heirs.Kyrioleis.Poor to the earth he cometh thus,Pity so to take on us;And makes us rich in heaven above,And like the angels of his love.Kyrioleis.All this for us hath Jesus done,And his great love to us hath shown:Let Christendom rejoice therefore,And give him thanks for evermore!Kyrioleis.
IIIA SONG OF THE LITTLE CHILD JESUS, FOR CHILDREN AT CHRISTMAS.TAKEN OUT OF THE SECOND CHAPTER OF THE GOSPEL OF ST. LUKE.From heaven high I come to you,I bring a story good and new:Of goodly news so much I bring,Of it I must both speak and sing.To you a child is come this morn,A child of chosen maiden born,A little babe so sweet and mildYour joy and bliss shall be that child.‘Tis the Lord Christ, our very God.He will you ease of all your load;He’ll be himself your Saviour sureAnd from all sinning make you pure.He brings you all the news so gladWhich God the Father ready had—That you shall in his heavenly houseLive now and evermore with us.Take heed then to the token sure—The crib, the swaddling clothes so poor:The infant you shall find laid thereWho all the world doth hold and bear.Hence let us all be gladsome then,And with the shepherd-folk go inTo see what God to us hath givenWith his dear honoured Son from heaven.Take note, my heart; see there! look low:What lies then in the manger so?Whose is the lovely little child?It is the darling Jesus-child.Hail, noble guest in humble guise,Poor sinners who didst not despise,And com’st to me in misery!My thoughts must all be thanks to thee!Ah Lord! the maker of us all!How hast thou grown so poor and smallThat there thou liest on withered grass,The supper of the ox and ass!Were the world wider many fold,And decked with gems and cloth of gold,‘T were far too mean and narrow allTo be for thee a cradle small!The silk and velvet that are thineAre rough hay, linen not too fine;Thereon thou, king so rich and great,Liest as if in heavenly state.And this hath therefore pleased thee,To make this truth right plain to me,That all the world’s power, honour, wealthAre nothing to thy heart or health.Ah, little Christ! my heart’s poor shedWould make thee a soft, little bed:Rest there as in a lowly shrine,And make that heart for ever thine,That so I always gladsome be,Ready to dance, and sing to theeThe lullaby thou lovest best,With sweetest hymn for dearest guest.Glory to God on highest throneWho gave to us his only Own!For this the angel troop sings inA New Year with gladsome din.