O Night Of Nights! (Hymn)

"Let us now go even unto Bethlehem."

O Night of nights! O night
    Desired of man so long!
The ancient heavens fled forth in light
    To sing thee thy new song;
And shooting down the steep,
    To shepherd folk of old,
An angel, while they watch'd their sheep,
    Set foot beside the fold.

Lo! while as like to die
    Of that keen light he shed,
They look'd on his pure majesty,
    Amazed, and sore bestead;
Lo! while with words of cheer
    He bade their trembling cease,
The flocks of God swept sweetly near,
    And sang to them of peace.

All on the hillside grass
    That fulgent radiance fell,
So close those innocents did pass,
    Their words were heard right well;
Among the sheep, their wings
    Some folding, walk'd the sod
An order'd throng of shining things,
    White, with the smile of God.

The waits of heaven to hear,
    Oh! what it must have been!
Think, Christian people, think, and fear
    For cold hearts, for unclean;
Think how the times go by,
    How love and longing fail,
Think how we live and how we die,
    As this were but a tale.

O tender tale of old,
    Live in thy dear renown;
God's smile was in the dark, behold
    That way His hosts came down;
Light up, great God, Thy Word,
    Make the blest meaning strong,
As if our ears, indeed, had heard
    The glory of their song.

It was so far away,
    But Thou could'st make it near,
And all its living might display
    And cry to it, "Be here,"
Here, in th' unresting town,
    As once remote to them,
Who heard it when the heavens came down,
    On pastoral Bethlehem.

It was so long ago,
    But God can make it now,
And as with that sweet overflow,
    Our empty hearts endow;
Take, Lord, those words outworn,
    O! make them new for aye,
Speak - "Unto you a child is born,"
    To-day - to-day - to-day.

Jean Ingelow

Jean Ingelow was an English poet and novelist known for her popular stories and poems in the 19th century. Her work, including 'Mopsa the Fairy', earned her recognition during her lifetime. She was also involved in the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Ingelow published several poetry collections, with her first in 1863, which was well-received and cemented her reputation as a poet.

Jean Ingelow

Seven Times Four. Maternity.

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The High Tide On The Coast Of Lincolnshire.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Dear Is The Lost Wife To A Lone Man's Heart. (Hymn)

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. A Poet In His Youth, And The Cuckoo-Bird.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

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The shades of night were brooding
O'er the sea, the earth, the sky;
The passing winds were wailing
In a low, unearthly sigh;
The darkness gathered deeper,
For no starry light was shed,
And silence reigned unbroken,
As the silence of the dead.

The wintry clouds were hanging
From the starless sky so low,
While 'neath them earth lay folded
In a winding shroud of snow.
'Twas cold, 'twas dark, 'twas dreary,
And the blast that swept along
The mountains hoarsely murmured
A fierce, discordant song.

And mortal men were resting
From the turmoil of the day,
And broken hearts were dreaming
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And saintly men were keeping
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Song For The Night Of Christ's Resurrection.

(A Humble Imitation.)

"And birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave."

    It is the noon of night,
    And the world's Great Light
Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her:
    The moon hath veiled her face,
    Nor looks on that dread place
Where He lieth dead in sealéd sepulchre;
    And heaven and hades, emptied, lend
Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end.

    Tier above tier they rise,
    Their wings new line the skies,
And shed out comforting light among the stars;
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    The heavenly signs deface,
The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars;
    Yet high they sit in thronéd state, -
It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate.

    And first and highest set,
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Katie, Aged Five Years.

(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.)

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,
    And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth
    With a sunbeam on her hair.

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,
    And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth
    On the sainted brow and cheek.

There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing,
    In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease,
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be failing,
    They, like Aaron, "hold their peace."

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Songs Of The Night Watches, - The Middle Watch.

I.

I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy and deep:
I had known it was dark in my sleep,
    And I rose and looked out,
And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick round about
With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far
For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where remote
In the sheen of their glory they float,
Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to partake,
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Drink day that is born of a star.
I murmured, "Remoteness and greatness, how deep you are set,
How afar in the rim of the whole;
You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, O, nor yet
Of our light-bearer, - drawing the marvellous moons as they roll,
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Songs in the Night.

"Where is God my Maker, Who giveth songs in the night."--Bible.

The hour of midnight had swept past,
    The city bell tolled three,
The moon had sank behind the clouds,
    No rustling in the tree.
All, all was silent as the grave,
    And memories of the tomb,
Had banished sweet sleep far away,
    All spoke of tears and gloom.

When suddenly upon the air.
    Rang out a sweet bird's song,
No feeble, weak, uncertain note,
    No plaint of grief or wrong,
No "Miserere Domine,"
    No "Dies Irea" sad,
But "Gloria in Excelsis" rang,
    In accents wild and glad.

How could he sing? a birdling caged,
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Christmas Hymn.

Break over the waiting hill-tops,
    White dawn of the Christmas morn!
For the angels have sung through the midnight,
    That the wonderful Babe is born.

And still in the slumbering valleys,
    The night's black tents are up,
And the young moon stands on the mountains,
    Clear and fair as a silver cup.

Under the cottage rafters,
    Silent and soft and deep,
On the swart low brow of the toiler,
    Settles the dew of sleep.

And some that watch and waken,
    Are dreaming of eyes whose ray
Was long ago quenched and hidden
    Under the shroud away.

Oh, sing thy jubilant anthem
    Over the frozen mould,
And tell that wonderful story
    Again, that never grows old!

For under the year's broad shadow,
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Kate Seymour Maclean