HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er, The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, As they draw near to their eternal home; Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view HE lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build Then straight she shews, 't was not for want of voice, b On the Morning of Christ's Dativity. HIS is the month, and this the happy morn, For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should release, And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant GOD? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome Him to this His new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See, how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet; Oh, run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at His blessèd feet; Have thou the honour first thy LORD to greet, And join thy voice unto the Angel quire, From out His secret altar touched with hallowed fire. |