The shepherds on the lawn Or ere the point of dawn Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they than 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 finger 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 fulfilling; 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 His constellations set And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep, Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. But wisest Fate says No; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both Himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;