This is the month, and this the hap­py morn,
Wherein the Son of Hea­ven’s eter­nal King,
Of wedd­ed maid and vir­gin mo­ther born,
Our great re­demp­tion from above did bring;
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
To sit the midst of Tri­nal Uni­ty,
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,
Hath took no print of the ap­proach­ing light,
And all the span­gled host keep watch in squad­rons bright?

See how from far up­on the East­ern road
The star-led Wis­ards 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.

The Hymn

It was the win­ter wild,
While the hea­ven-born child
All mean­ly wrapt in the rude man­ger lies;
Nature, in awe to him,
Had doffed her gau­dy trim,
With her great Mas­ter so to sym­pa­thize:
It was no sea­son then for her
To wan­ton with the Sun, her lus­ty Pa­ra­mour.

Only with speech­es fair
She woos the gen­tle air
To hide her guil­ty front with in­no­cent snow,
And on her nak­ed shame,
Pollute with sin­ful blame,
The saint­ly veil of maid­en white to throw;
Confounded, that her Mak­er’s eyes
Should look so near upon her foul de­for­mi­ties.

But he, her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:
She, crowned with ol­ive green, came soft­ly slid­ing
Down through the turn­ing sphere,
His rea­dy Har­bin­ger,
With tur­tle wing the amor­ous clouds di­vid­ing;
And, wav­ing wide her myr­tle wand,
She strikes a uni­ver­sal peace through sea and land.

No war, or bat­tail’s sound,
Was heard the world around;
The idle spear and shield were high up­hung;
The hook­èd cha­ri­ot stood,
Unstained with hos­tile blood;
The trum­pet spake not to the arm­èd throng;
And Kings sat still with aw­ful eye,
As if they sure­ly knew their sov­ran Lord was by.

But peace­ful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth be­gan.
The winds, with won­der whist,
Smoothly the wa­ters kissed,
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite for­got to rave,
While birds of calm sit brood­ing on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep am­aze,
Stand fixed in stead­fast gaze,
Bending one way their pre­cious in­flu­ence,
And will not take their flight,
For all the morn­ing light,
Or Lu­ci­fer that oft­en warned them thence;
But in their glim­mer­ing orbs did glow,
Until their Lord him­self be­spake, and bid them go.

And, though the sha­dy gloom
Had giv­en day her room,
The Sun him­self with­held his wont­ed speed,
And hid his head of shame,
As his in­fe­ri­or flame
The new-en­light­ened world no more should need:
He saw a great­er Sun ap­pear
Than his bright Throne or burn­ing ax­le­tree could bear.

The shep­herds on the lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simp­ly chat­ting in a rus­tic row;
Full lit­tle thought they than
That the migh­ty Pan
Was kind­ly come to live with them be­low:
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their sil­ly thoughts so bu­sy keep.

When such mu­sic sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet
As ne­ver was by mor­tal finger strook,
Divinely-war­bled voice
Answering the string­èd noise,
As all their souls in bliss­ful rap­ture took:
The air, such plea­sure loth to lose,
With thou­sand ec­hoes still pro­longs each hea­ven­ly close.

Nature, that heard such sound
Beneath the hol­low round
Of Cyn­thia’s seat the ai­ry Re­gion thrill­ing,
Now was al­most won
To think her part was done,
And that her reign had here its last ful­fill­ing:
She knew such har­mo­ny alone
Could hold all Hea­ven and Earth in hap­pi­er un­ion.

At last sur­rounds their sight
A globe of cir­cu­lar light,
That with long beams the shame­faced Night ar­rayed;
The hel­mèd Che­ru­bim
And sword­ed Se­ra­phim
Are seen in glit­ter­ing ranks with wings dis­played,
Harping in loud and so­lemn quire,
With un­ex­press­ive notes, to Hea­ven’s new­born Heir.

Such mu­sic (as ’tis said)
Before was ne­ver made,
But when of old the Sons of Morn­ing sung,
While the Cre­at­or great
His con­stel­la­tions set,
And the well-bal­anced World on hing­es hung,
And cast the dark foun­da­tions deep,
And bid the wel­ter­ing waves their oozy chan­nel keep.

Ring out, ye crys­tal spheres!
Once bless our hu­man ears,
If ye have pow­er to touch our sens­es so;
And let your sil­ver chime
Move in me­lo­di­ous time;
And let the bass of hea­ven’s deep or­gan blow;
And with your nine­fold har­mo­ny
Make up full con­sort of the an­gel­ic sym­pho­ny.

For, if such ho­ly song
Enwrap our fan­cy long,
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;
And spec­kled Va­ni­ty
Will sick­en soon and die,
And lep­rous Sin will melt from earth­ly mould;
And Hell it­self will pass away,
And leave her do­lo­rous man­sions of the peer­ing day.

Yes, Truth and Jus­tice then
Will down re­turn to men,
The enam­elled ar­ras of the rain­bow wear­ing;
And Mer­cy set between,
Throned in ce­les­ti­al sheen,
With ra­di­ant feet the tis­sued clouds down steer­ing;
And Hea­ven, as at some fes­ti­val,
Will op­en wide the gates of her high pa­lace-hall.

But wis­est Fate says No,
This must not yet be so;
The Babe lies yet in smil­ing in­fancy
That on the bit­ter cross
Must re­deem our loss,
So both him­self and us to glo­ri­fy:
Yet first, to those chained in sleep,
The wake­ful trump of doom must thun­der through the deep,

With such a hor­rid clang
As on Mount Si­nai rang,
While the red fire and smoul­der­ing clouds out­brake:
The aged Earth, aghast
With ter­ror of that blast,
Shall from the sur­face to the cen­tre shake,
When, at the world’s last ses­siön,
The dread­ful Judge in mid­dle air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss
Full and per­fect is,
But now be­gins; for from this ha­ppy day
The Old Dra­gon un­der ground,
In strait­er lim­its bound,
Not half so far casts his usurp­èd sway,
And, wroth to see his King­dom fail,
Swindges the sca­ly horror of his fold­ed tail.

The Ora­cles are dumb;
No voice or hi­de­ous hum
Runs through the arch­èd roof in words de­ceiv­ing.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more di­vine,
Will hol­low shriek the steep of Del­phos leav­ing.
No night­ly trance, or breath­èd spell,
Inspires the pale-eyed Priest from the pro­phet­ic cell.

The lone­ly mount­ains o’er,
And the re­sound­ing shore,
A voice of weep­ing heard and loud la­ment;
Edgèd with pop­lar pale,
From haunt­ed spring, and dale
The part­ing Ge­ni­us is with sigh­ing sent;
With flow­er-in­woven tress­es torn
The Nymphs in twi­light shade of tang­led thick­ets mourn.

In con­se­crat­ed earth,
And on the ho­ly hearth,
The Lars and Le­mures moan with mid­night plaint;
In urns, and al­tars round,
A drear and dy­ing sound
Affrights the Fla­mens at their ser­vice quaint;
And the chill mar­ble seems to sweat,
While each pe­cul­iar pow­er for­goes his wont­ed seat.

Peor and Baäl­im
Forsake their tem­ples dim,
With that twice-bat­tered god of Pa­les­tine;
And moon­èd 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 Tham­muz mourn.

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
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 tim­breled an­thems dark,
The sable-stol­èd Sor­cer­ers bear his wor­shiped ark.

He feels from Ju­da’s land
The dread­ed In­fant’s hand;
The rays of Beth­le­hem blind his dus­ky eyn;
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 damn­èd crew.

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.

But see! the Vir­gin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest,
Time is our te­di­ous song should here have end­ing:
Heaven’s young­est-teem­èd 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, 1629