And sullen Moloch fled,
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: 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.

Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green,
Trampling the unshow’r’d grass with lowings loud: 
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
In vain with timbrell’d anthems dark
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worship’d ark.

He feels from Juda’s land
The dreaded infant’s hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Not all the gods beside,
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So, when the sun in bed
Curtain’d with cloudy red
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fetter’d ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted fays
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see, the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest;
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: 
Heaven’s youngest-teemed star
Hath fix’d her polish’d car,
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: 
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harness’d angels sit in order serviceable.

_—­J.  Milton_

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat, which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in the air appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his
     tears were fed:—­
“Alas!” quoth He, “but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I! 
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.”—­
With this He vanish’d out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away;
And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmasday.

_—­R.  Southwell_

A CRADLE SONG.

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber;
Holy angels guard thy bed! 
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide,
All without thy care or payment
All thy wants are well supplied.