Sweet music, sweeter far Than any song is sweet: Sweet music, heavenly rare, Mine ears, O peers, doth greet. You gentle flocks, whose fleeces pearled with dew Resemble heaven, whom golden drops make bright, Listen, O listen, now, O not to you Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night: But voices most divine Make blissful harmony: Voices that seem to shine, For what else clears the sky? Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see, The tunes divine, and so the singers be. Lo, how the firmament Within an azure fold The flock of stars hath pent, That we might them behold, Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light, Nor can their crystals such reflection give. What then doth make the element so bright? The heavens are come down upon earth to live: But hearken to the song, Glory to glory’s King, And peace all men among, These quiristers do sing. Angels they are, as also (shepherds) He Whom in our fear we do admire to see. Let not amazement blind Your souls, said he, annoy: To you and all mankind My message bringeth joy. For lo! the world’s great Shepherd now is born, A blessèd Babe, an Infant full of power: After long night uprisen is the morn, Renowning Bethlem in the Saviour. Sprung is the perfect day, By prophets seen afar: Sprung is the mirthful May, Which winter cannot mar. In David’s city doth this Sun appear Clouded in flesh, yet, shepherds, sit we here? EDMUND BOLTON 31. OF THE EPIPHANY Fair eastern star, that art ordained to run Before the sages, to the rising sun, Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud: Ye heavenly bodies glory to be bright, And are esteemed as ye are rich in light, But here on earth is taught a different way, Since under this low roof the Highest lay. Jerusalem erects her stately towers, Displays her windows and adorns her bowers; Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark, Let Herod’s palace still continue dark; Each school and synagogue thy force repels, There Pride enthroned in misty error dwells: The temple, where the priests maintain their quire, Shall taste no beam of thy celestial fire, While this weak cottage all thy splendour takes: A joyful gate of every chink it makes. Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair, No king exalted in a stately chair, Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled, But straw and hay enwrap a speechless Child. Yet Sabae’s lords before this Babe unfold Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh, and gold.