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 insufferable,

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 wizards haste with odors sweet!

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honor first, thy Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the angel choir,

From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

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 base of heaven’s deep organ blow;

And with your ninefold harmony

Make up full consort to the angelic symphony

JOHN MILTON, 1608–1674³⁸