What sudden blaze of song Spreads o'er th' expanse of heaven?

In waves of light it thrills along, Th' angelic signal given-- "Glory to G.o.d!" from yonder central fire Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry quire;

Like circles widening round Upon a clear blue river, Orb after orb, the wondrous sound Is echoed on forever; "Glory to G.o.d on high, on earth be peace, And love toward men of love--salvation and release."

Yet stay, before thou dare To join that festal throng; Listen and mark what gentle air First stirred the tide of song; 'Tis not, "the Saviour born in David's home, To whom for power and health obedient worlds should come:"

'Tis not "the Christ the Lord:"-- With fix'd adoring look The choir of angels caught the word, Nor yet their silence broke; But when they heard the sign, where Christ should be, In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.

Wrapped in His swaddling-bands, And in His manger laid, The hope and glory of all lands Is come to the world's aid: No peaceful home upon His cradle smiled, Guests rudely went and came where slept the royal Child.

But where Thou dwellest, Lord, No other thought should be; Once duly welcomed and adored, How should I part with Thee?

Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace The single heart to be Thy pure abiding-place.

Thee, on the bosom laid Of a pure virgin mind, In quiet ever, and in shade, Shepherd and sage may find; They who have bow'd untaught to nature's sway, And they who follow truth along her star-paved way.

The pastoral spirits first Approach Thee, Babe divine, For they in lowly thoughts are nursed, Meet for Thy lowly shrine: Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell, Angels from heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.

Still, as the day comes round For Thee to be revealed, By wakeful shepherds Thou art found, Abiding in the field.

All through the wintry heaven and chill night air, In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.

O faint not ye for fear-- What though your wandering sheep, Reckless of what they see and hear, Lie lost in wilful sleep?

High heaven in mercy to your sad annoy Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.

Think on th' eternal home The Saviour left for you; Think on the Lord most holy, come To dwell with hearts untrue: So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways, And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.

_John Keble._

_The Wa.s.sail-Bowl._

"Wa.s.sail, wa.s.sail, all over the town; Our toast it is white, our ale it is brown, Our bowl it is made of the mapling tree; With the wa.s.sailing bowl we will drink to thee."

_Old Carol._

Wa.s.sAIL.

Give way, give way, ye gates, and win An easy blessing to your bin And basket, by our entering in.

May both with manchet[T] stand replete, Your larders, too, so hung with meat, That though a thousand thousand eat,

Yet ere twelve moons shall whirl about Their silvery spheres, there's none may doubt But more's sent in than was served out.

Next, may your dairies prosper so As that your pans no ebb may know; But if they do, the more to flow,

Like to a solemn, sober stream, Banked all with lilies, and the cream Of sweetest cowslips filling them.

Then may your plants be pressed with fruit, Nor bee or hive you have be mute, But sweetly sounding like a lute.

Last, may your harrows, shares, and ploughs, Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows, All prosper by your virgin vows.

Alas! we bless, but see none here, That brings us either ale or beer; In a dry house all things are near.

Let's leave a longer time to wait, Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate; And all live here with needy fate;

Where chimneys do forever weep For want of warmth, and stomachs keep With noise the servants' eyes from sleep.

It is in vain to sing or stay Our free feet here, but we'll away; Yet to the Lares this we'll say:

The time will come when you'll be sad, And reckon this for fortune bad, T' have lost the good ye might have had.

_Robert Herrick._

FOOTNOTE:

[T] White bread.

INVITATION a FAIRE NOeL.

(FROM THE FRENCH OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.)

Hail, good Masters, let us bide, Hither come from travel wide, This Christmas-tide.

Hearken, give us bed and cheer, We are weary, life is dear This day o' the year!

G.o.d send ye joy and peace on earth, Who broach good cheer for Christe's birth.

Masters, an ye make no feast: Spiced ale and meat of beast, Nor laugh the least: If ye fill not pantries high With bread, and fish, and mammoth pie, And sweets, pardie!-- G.o.d ordains no peace on earth To ye who fast at Christe's birth.

Masters, it is writ of old Who fill the fire for Christmas cold And wa.s.sail hold, Shall have of food a double store And ruddy-blazing ingle roar Forevermore.

G.o.d sends the peace of heaven and earth To men who carol Christe's birth.

O Masters! let nor hate nor spite Mar the tongue of any wight 'Twixt night and night.

_Botun, batun_--belabor well Churls who sleep through matin bell And no soothe tell.

G.o.d will forfeit peace on earth If men fall out at Christe's birth.

Christmas tipples every wine, English, French, and Gascon fine And Angevine; Clinks with neighbor and with guest, Empties casks with gibe and jest-- The year's for rest!

G.o.d sends to men the joy of earth Who broach good cheer for Christe's birth.