XXII.

Peor and Baalim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-battered god of Palestine,
And mooned Ashtaroth,

Heaven's queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with tapers holy shine,
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Tammuz mourn.

XXIII.

And sullen Moloch fled,

Hath left in shadows dread.

His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In vain with cymbals' ring

They call the grisly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue;

The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

XXIV.

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud :

Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest,

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud,

In vain with timbrelled anthems dark

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.

XXV.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne ;

rays

Nor all the gods beside,

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,

Can in His swaddling-bands control the damned' crew.

XXVI.

So when the sun in bed,

Curtained with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale,

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,

And the yellow-skirted fays

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

XXVII.

But see, the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is our tedious song should here have ending:

Heaven's youngest teemed star

Hath fixed her polished car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:
And all about the courtly stable,

Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

John Milton.

I SING the birth was born to-night,
The Author both of life and light,

The angels so did sound it;
And like the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light and were afraid,
Yet searched, and true they found it.

The Son of God, the eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soul from danger;

He whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which heaven and earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisdom willed it so,
The Son's obedience knew no No,

Both wills were in one stature ;

And as that wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made flesh indeed,
And took on Him our nature.

What comfort by Him do we win,
Who made Himself the price of sin,
To make us heirs of glory!
To see this Babe, all innocence,
A martyr born in our defence:

Can man forget this story?

Ben Jonson.

THE shepherds went their hasty way,

And found the lowly stable-shed Where the virgin-mother lay:

And now they checked their eager tread, For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, A mother's song the virgin-mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and peace on earth.

She listened to the tale divine,

And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, The Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:

Joy rose within her like a summer's morn;
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born!

Thou mother of the Prince of Peace,

Poor, simple, and of low estate! That strife should vanish, battle cease,

Oh, why should this thy soul elate?

Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,

Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not War a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him carth's majestic monarchs hail

Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene,

To maids and youths in robes of state!

I am a woman poor and mean,

And therefore is my soul elate.

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!

"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,

He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board

Steals all his widow's toil had won;

Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

"Then wisely is my soul elate,

That strife should vanish, battle cease:

I'm poor and of a low estate,

The mother of the Prince of Peace.

Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:

Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born!"

Samuel T. Coleridge.