Lullaby, O Paradise; Of my heart Though Saviour art; On thy face I press a kiss.

Wouldst thou learn so speedily, Pain to try, To heave a sigh?

Sleep, for thou shalt see the day Of dire scath, Of dreadful death, To bitter scorn and shame a prey.

Rays now round thy brow extend, But in the end A crown of cruel thorns shall bend.

Lullaby, O little one, Gentle guest Who for thy rest A manger hast, to lie upon.

Born in winter of the year, Jesu dear, As the lost world's prisoner.

Lullaby (for thou art bound Pain to know, And want and woe), Mid the cattle standing round.

Beauty mine, sleep peacefully; Heaven's monarch! see, With my veil I cover thee.

Lullaby, my Spouse, my Lord, Fairest Child Pure, undefiled, Thou by all my soul adored.

Lo! the shepherd band draws nigh; Horns they ply Thee their Lord to glorify.

Lullaby, my soul's delight, For Israel, Faithless and fell, Thee with cruel death would smite.

Now the milk suck from my breast, Holiest, best, Thy kind eyes thou openest.

Lullaby, the while I sing; Holy Jesu Now sleep anew, My mantle is thy sheltering.

Sleep, sleep, thou who dost heaven impart My Lord thou art; Sleep, as I press thee to my heart.

Poor the place where thou dost lie, Earth's loveliest!

Yet take thy rest; Sleep my Child, and lullaby.

It would be interesting to know if Mrs Browning ever heard any one of the many variants of this lullaby before writing her poem "The Virgin Mary to the Child Jesus." The version given above was communicated to me by a resident at Vallauria, in the heart of the Ligurian Alps. In that district it is sung in the churches on Christmas Eve, when out abroad the mountains sleep soundly in their snows and a stray wolf is not an impossible apparition, nothing reminding you that you are within a day's journey of the citron groves of Mentone.

There are several old English carols which bear a strong resemblance to the Italian sacred lullabies. One, current at least as far back as the time of Henry IV., is preserved among the Sloane MSS.:

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere fode, How xalt thou sufferin be nayled on the rode.

So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere smerte, How xalt thou sufferin the scharp spere to Thi herte?

So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, I synge all for Thi sake, Many on is the scharpe schour to Thi body is schape.

So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, fayre happis the befalle, How xalt thou sufferin to drynke ezyl and galle?

So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, I synge al beforn How xalt thou sufferin the scharp garlong of thorn?

So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, gwy wepy Thou so sore, Thou art bothin G.o.d and man, gwat woldyst Thou be more?

So blyssid be the tyme!

Here, as in the Piedmontese song, the "shadow of the cross" makes its presence distinctly felt, whereas in the Latin lullaby it is wholly absent. Nor are there any dark or sad forebodings in the fragment:

Dormi Jesu, mater ridet, Quae; tam dulcem somnum videt, Dormi, Jesu blandule.

Si non dormis, mater plorat, Inter fila cantans orat: Blande, veni Somnule.

Many Italian Christmas cradle songs are in this lighter strain.

In Italy and Spain a _presepio_ or _nacimento_ is arranged in old-fashioned houses on the eve of Christmas, and all kinds of songs are sung or recited before the white image of the Child as it lies in its bower of greenery. "Flower of Nazareth sleep upon my breast, my heart is thy cradle," sing the Tuscans, who curiously call Christmas "the Yule-log Easter." In Sicily a thousand endearing epithets are applied to the Infant Saviour: "figghiu duci," "Gesiuzzi beddu,"

"Gesiuzzi picchiureddi." The Sicilian poet relates how once, when the Madunazza was mending St Joseph's clothes, the Bambineddu cried in His cradle because no one was attending to Him; so the archangel Raphael came down and rocked Him, and said three sweet little words to Him, "Lullaby, Jesus, Son of Mary!" Another time, when the Child was older and the mother was going to visit St Anne, he wept because He wished to go too. The mother let Him accompany her on condition that He would not break St Anne's bobbins. Yet another time the Virgin went to the fair to buy flax, and the Child said that He too would like to have a fairing. The Virgin buys Him a tambourine, and angels descend to listen to His playing. Such stories are endless; some, no doubt, are invented on the spur of the moment, but the larger portion are sc.r.a.ps of old legendary lore. Not a few of the popular beliefs, relating to the Infant Jesus may be traced to the apocryphal Gospels, which were extensively circulated during the earlier Christian centuries.

There is, for instance, a Provencal song containing the legend of an apple-tree that bowed its branches to the Virgin, which is plainly derived from this source. Speaking of Provence, one ought not to forget the famous "Troubadour of Bethlehem," Saboly, who was born in 1640, and who composed more than sixty _noels_. Five pretty lines of his form an epitome of sacred lullabies:

Faudra dire, faudra dire, Quauco cansoun, Au garcoun, A la facoun D'aquelo de _soum-soum_.

George Wither deserves remembrance here for what he calls a "Rocking hymn," written about the year of Saboly's birth. "Nurses," he says, "usually sing their children asleep, and through want of pertinent matter they oft make use of unprofitable, if not worse, songs; this was therefore prepared that it might help acquaint them and their nurse children with the loving care and kindness of their Heavenly Father." Consciously or unconsciously, Wither caught the true spirit of the ancient carols in the verses--charming in spite, or perhaps because of their demure simplicity--which follow his little exordium:

Sweet baby, sleep: what ails my dear; What ails my darling thus to cry?

Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby.

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?

What thing to thee can mischief do?

Thy G.o.d is now thy Father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep....

Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine eldest brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. &c., &c.

Count Gubernatis, in his "Usi Natalizj," quotes a popular Spanish lullaby, addressed to any ordinary child, but having reference to the Holy Babe:

The Baby Child of Mary, Now cradle He has none; His father is a carpenter, And he shall make Him one.

The lady good St Anna, The lord St Joachim, They rock the Baby's cradle, That sleep may come to Him.

Then sleep thou too, my baby, My little heart so dear; The Virgin is beside thee, The Son of G.o.d is near.

When they are old enough to understand the meaning of words, children are sure to be interested up to a certain point by these saintly fables, but, taken as a whole, the songs of the South give us the impression that the coming of Christmas kindles the imagination of the Southern mother rather than that of the Southern child. On the north side of the Alps it is otherwise; there is scarcely need to say that in the Vaterland, Christmas is before all the children's feast. We, who have borrowed many of the German yule-tide customs, have left out the "Christkind;" and it is well that we have done so. Transplanted to foreign soil, that poetic piece of extra-belief would have become a mockery. As soon try to naturalise Kolyada, the Sclavonic white-robed New-year girl. The Christkind in His mythical attributes is nearer to Kolyada than to the Italian Bambinello. He belongs to the people, not to the Church. He is not swathed in jewelled swaddling clothes; His limbs are free, and He has wings that carry Him wheresoever good children abide. There is about Him all the dreamy charm of lands where twilight is long and shade and shine intermingle softly, and where the earth's wintry winding-sheet is more beautiful than her April bride gown. The most popular of German lullabies is a truly Teutonic mixture of piety, wonder-lore, and homeliness. Wagner has introduced the music to which it is sung into his "Siegfried-Idyl." I have to thank a Heidelberg friend for the text:

Sleep, baby, sleep: Your father tends the sheep; Your mother shakes the branches small, Whence happy dreams in showers fall: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: The sky is full of sheep; The stars the lambs of heaven are, For whom the shepherd moon doth care: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: The Christ Child owns a sheep; He is Himself the Lamb of G.o.d; The world to save, to death He trod: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: I'll give you then a sheep With pretty bells, and you shall play And frolic with him all the day: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: And do not bleat like sheep, Or else the shepherd's dog will bite My naughty, little, crying spright: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: Begone, and watch the sheep, You naughty little dog! Begone, And do not wake my little one: Sleep, baby, sleep.

In Denmark children are sung to sleep with a cradle hymn which is believed (so I am informed by a youthful correspondent) to be "very old." It has seven stanzas, of which the first runs, "Sleep sweetly, little child; lie quiet and still; as sweetly sleep as the bird in the wood, as the flowers in the meadow. G.o.d the Father has said, 'Angels stand on watch where mine, the little ones, are in bed.'" A correspondent at Warsaw (still more youthful) sends me the even-song of Polish children:

The stars shine forth from the blue sky; How great and wondrous is G.o.d's might; Shine, stars, through all eternity, His witness in the night.

O Lord, Thy tired children keep: Keep us who know and feel Thy might; Turn Thine eye on us as we sleep, And give us all good-night.