WHEN the Virgin bore a child,
Man to God was reconcil'd:
Righteousness and Love could meet
At an Infant Saviour's feet:
Mercy was Religion's part,
And the Temple was the heart;
Poverty had breath to live,
And Resentments to forgive;
Love to enemies could roam,
Never absent from its home;
And the wounded heart could melt
For the hand whose blow it felt.

Had Redemption told no more,
Well might Kings the Child adore,
And Philosophy disclaim
All its impious Learning's fame.
But above the reach of thought
Was the miracle it wrought;

Hoe too is an edged tool,
But in sharpness sickle certainly wins.
Father too is a parent,
Wi tongdo tungsyong
But in love mother surely surpasses.
O love, his indeed cannot be more than hers.

See the stars, love,
In the water much clearer and brighter
Than those above us, and whiter,
Like nenuphars!

Star-shadows shine, love:
How many stars in your bowl?
How many shadows in your soul?
Only mine, love, mine?

When I move the oars, see
How the stars are tossed,
Distorted, even lost!
Even yours, do you see?

The poor waters spill
The stars, waters troubled, forsaken!—
The heavens are not shaken you say, love;
Its stars stand still.

There! did you see
That spark fly up at us? even
Stars are not safe in heaven!

Dear! let me dream of love,
Ah! though a dream it be!
I'll ask no boon, above
A word, a smile, from thee:
At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.

Sweet, let me gaze awhile
Into those radiant eyes!
I'll scheme not to beguile
The heart, that deeper lies
Beneath them, than yon star in night's pellucid skies.

Love, let my spirit bow
In worship at thy shrine!
I'll swear, thou shalt not know
One word from lips of mine,
An instant's pain to send through that shy soul of thine.

Is not Love here, as 'tis in other Clymes,
And diff'reth it, as doe the sev'rall Nations?
Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times,
Or in this Iland alt'reth with the Fashions?
Or have our Passions lesser pow'r then theirs,
Who had lesse Art them lively to expresse?
Is Nature growne lesse pow'rfull in their Heires,
Or in our Fathers did she more transgresse?
I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true,
As any Mans, that Memory can boast,
And my Respects and Services to you
Equall with his, that loves his Mistres most:

I heare some say, this Man is not in love:
Who? can he love? a likely thing, they say;
Reade but his Verse, and it will eas'ly prove.
O, judge not rashly (gentle Sir) I pray,
Because I loosely trifle in this sort,
As one that faine his Sorrowes would beguile:
You now suppose me all this time in sport,
And please your selfe with this Conceit the while;
Yee shallow Censures, sometime see yee not,
In greatest Perils some Men pleasant be,
Where Fame by Death is onely to be got,
They resolute? so stands the case with me;

With Fooles and Children good Discretion beares;
Then honest People, beare with Love and Me,
Nor older yet, nor wiser made by yeeres,
Amongst the rest of Fooles and Children be:
Love still a Baby, playes with Gawdes and Toyes,
And like a Wanton, sports with ev'ry Fether;
And Ideots still are running after Boyes,
Then Fooles and Children fitt'st to goe together:
He still as young as when he first was borne,
No wiser I, then when as young as he.
You that behold us, laugh us not to scorne,
Give Nature thankes, you are not such as we:

And would'st thou reach, rash scholar mine,
Love's high unruffled state?
Awake! thy easy dreams resign,
First learn thee how to hate:—

Hatred of sin, and Zeal, and Fear,
Lead up the Holy Hill;
Track them, till Charity appear
A self-denial still.

Dim is the philosophic flame,
By thoughts severe unfed:
Book-lore ne'er served, when trial came,
Nor gifts, when faith was dead

Behold, a Silly, tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies,
Alas! a piteous sight.
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little pilgrim bed;
But forced is He with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there;
First what He is enquire;
As orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a Prince's court,
The crib His chair of state;

In a mountain's shade,
below
winds
that dissipate
a storm's white clouds—
what has not yet
cleared away
is the darkness
of my thoughts.