William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
Verses from the Shepherds’ HymnRichard Crashaw (c. 1613–1649)
W
Young dawn of our eternal day;
We saw Thine eyes break from the East,
And chase the trembling shades away;
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
To entertain this starry stranger?
Is this the best thou canst bestow—
A cold and not too cleanly manger?
Contend, the powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.
And let the mighty babe alone,
The phœnix builds the phœnix’ nest,
Love’s architecture is His own.
The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed ere He was born.
Come hovering o’er the place’s head,
Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow,
To furnish the fair infant’s bed.
Forbear, said I, be not too bold,
Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,
For well they now can spare their wings,
Since Heaven itself lies here below.
Well done, said I; but are you sure
Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?
Where to repose His royal head;
See, see how soon His new-bloom’d cheek
’Twixt mother’s breasts is gone to bed.
Sweet choice, said we, no way but so,
Not to lie cold, but sleep in snow!
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,
That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She ’gainst those mother diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle’s eyes.
Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes—
But to poor shepherds, homespun things,
Whose wealth’s their flocks, whose wit’s to be
Well read in their simplicity.
Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,
We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers,
To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.
To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
Of simple graces and sweet loves!
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves!
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!