第13章 SECOND BOOK(1)
SUMMARY
This division， embracing the latter eighty years of the seventeenth century， contains the close of our Early poetical style and the commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master of the new： in Milton， whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in the former book， —the crown and consummation of the early period.Their splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts， Spenser's excepted： they exhibit the wider and grander range which years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on Poetry.Poetry now gave expression to political feeling， to religious thought， to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such as Marvell， Herbert， and Wotton： whilst in Marvell and Milton， again， we find the first noble attempts at pure deion of nature， destined in our own ages to be continued and equalled.Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion， although before 1660 often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought， and afterward by levity and an artificial tone， —produced in Herrick and Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan： until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself， and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.—That the change from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of nature and simplicity is undeniable： yet the far bolder and wider scope which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700， and the successful efforts then made to gain greater clearness in expression， in their results have been no slight compensation.
62◆ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY
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 unsuferable，
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
Aford 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 odours sweet：
O run， prevent them with thy humble ode
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet；
Have thou the honour frst thy Lord to greet，
And join thy voice unto the angel quire
From out His secret altar touch'd with hallowd'fire.
THE HYMN
It was the Winter wild
While the heaven-born Child
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies；
Nature in awe to Him
Had dof'd her gaudy trim，
With her great Master so to sympathise：
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the sun， her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fair
She woos the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow；
And on her naked shame，
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.
But He， her fears to cease，
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace；
She， crown'd with olive green， came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere，
His ready harbinger，
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing；
And waving wide her myrtle wand，
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
No war， or battle's sound
Was heard the world around：
The idle spear and shield were high up hung；
The hookéd Chariot stood
Unstain'd with hostile blood；
The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng；
And kings sat still with awful eye，
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peaceful was the night
Wherin the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began：
The winds， with wonder whist，
Smoothly the waters kist，
Whispering new joys to the mild oceán—
Who now hath quite forgot to rave，
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.
The stars， with deep amaze，
Stand fx'd in steadfast gaze，
Bending one way their precious infuence；
And will not take their fight
For all the morning light，
Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence；
But in their glimmering orbs did glow
Until their Lord Himself bespake， and bid them go.
And though the shady gloom
Had given day her room，
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed，
And hid his head for shame，
As his inferior fame
The new-enlightn'd world no more should need：
He saw a greater Sun appear
Then his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn
Or ere the point of dawn
Sate simply chatting in a rustic row；
Full little thought they then
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below；
Perhaps their loves， or else their sheep
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet
As never was by mortal fnger strook—
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringéd noise，
As all their souls in blissful rapture took：
The air， such pleasure loth to lose，
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
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，
And that her reign had here its last fulflling；
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light，
That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd；
The helméd Cherubim
And sworded Seraphim
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd，
Harping in loud and solemn quire
With unexpressive notes， to Heaven's new-born Heir.
Such music (as'tis said)
Before was never made
But when of old the sons of morning sung，
While the Creator great