Bard's Delight - Christmas Special

On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity

(1629)

I 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,	5
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
II That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table	10
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.
III Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein	15
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,	20
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
IV 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;	25
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 I It was the winter wild,
While the heaven-born child	30
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	35
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty Paramour.
II Only with speeches fair
She woos the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,
And on her naked shame,	40
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.
III But he, her fears to cease,	45
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;	50
And, waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
IV No war, or battail’s sound,
Was heard the world around;
The idle spear and shield were high uphung;	55
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.	60
V 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,	65
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
VI The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,	70
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,	75
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
VII And, though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
And hid his head of shame,	80
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.
VIII The Shepherds on the lawn,	85
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:	90
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
IX When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet
As never was by mortal finger strook,	95
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.	100
X 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,	105
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.
XI At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light,	110
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,	115
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s newborn Heir.
XII Such music (as ’tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
While the Creator great	120
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.
XIII Ring out, ye crystal spheres!	125
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;	130
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort of the angelic symphony.
XIV For, if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;	135
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.	140
XV 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,	145
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
And Heaven, as at some festival,
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
XVI But wisest Fate says No,
This must not yet be so;	150
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,	155
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,
XVII With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang,
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
The aged Earth, aghast	160
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.
XVIII And then at last our bliss	165
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,	170
And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
XIX The Oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving.	175
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.	180
XX 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	185
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
XXI In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,	190
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,	195
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
XXII Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim,
With that twice-battered god of Palestine;
And moonèd Ashtaroth,	200
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.
XXIII And sullen Moloch, fled,	205
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;	210
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
XXIV Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green,
Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;	215
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.	220
XXV 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,	225
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.
XXVI So, when the Sun in bed,
Curtained with cloudy red,	230
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	235
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-teemèd star	240
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. (1608–1674).

The Bards Delight

A timely reflection I think considering what may be coming over the next four years. It was written for Britain but has its applications for us on this side of the pond. Note the ordering of title.


Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty

Ungrateful country, if thou e'er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled!
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,
And Russell's milder blood the scaffold wet;
But these had fallen for profitless regret
Had not thy holy Church her champions bred,
And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet
(Grave this within thy heart!) if spiritual things
Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear,
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support,
However hardly won or justly dear:
What came from heaven to heaven by nature clings,
And, if dissevered thence, its course is short.

William Wordsworth
1770 - 1850

Letter of His Holiness Pope John Paul II to Artists, 1999

Here is a link to Pope John Paul II's Letter to Artists. I think it would be really good for us to read this and discuss it. Perhaps we could do this asynchronously via comments on the blog, that way we don't have to wait for our next meeting.

Letter of His Holiness Pope John Paul II to Artists, 1999

Poem of the...Week

On His Being Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three

by John Milton

(1631)

HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,	5
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits indu’th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even	10
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven,
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-master’s eye

Antiquus, where art thou?

Apparently the old mainstay of the Kindlings blog has better things to do than produce extended musings on literature, politics and culture. I hope he has some good excuse, like getting conned out of all his money in a Dublin pub and being unable to afford an internet connection. Too bad. I'll try to start filling the massive void Antiquus has left by posting some literary inspiration, a good poem or link at least once a week. Our "sketchpad" has fallen to the wayside for now, but why not toss in some genuinely dead poets to fire up our tardy muses?

Today I'll leave you with one of my favorite carpe diem poems, "To His Coy Mistress," by Andrew Marvell. Arowbee might pick up some good lines from this poem - for some reason I think it suits his thematic interests.

In convincing his mistress of the urgency of love-making, Marvell paints eternity as a vast desert, where physical beauty is eradicated rather than perfected. So much for the new Heaven and the new Earth, I guess. Marvell should have picked up better theology, being raised by a Church of England clergyman...

T.S. Eliot, a fan of these metaphysicals as most of you know, alludes to the "roll our universe into a ball" passage in his own "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

But enough fun facts. I'll post the poem. If you've got the time, read and enjoy. We won't discuss it unless someone really wants to. Oh, while I'm on the topic of discussion, whose idea was it to read and discuss that Orwell essay, anyhow? Whoever it was sure wasn't there, ready to talk about it. For shame!

To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side	5
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.	10
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,	15
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.	20
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,	25
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:	30
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires	35
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.	40
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun	45
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Thought of this song...

"Why should the fire die?" by Nickel Creek. Reminds me of this site, for some reason.