Of which that Golden eye which clears the skies Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow light! And blessed ye, in silly pastors' sight, Wild creatures in whose warm crib now lies That heaven-sent youngling, holy maid-born wight, 'Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies! Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread! Though withered, - blessed grass, that hath the grace To deck and be a carpet to that place! Thus sang unto the sounds of oaten reed, Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed Star. - No, this ye need not do; |