“Sleep, my little one,
Sleep, my pretty one,
Sleep.”

Tennyson.

A CAROL AT THE MANGER.

Lully, lulla, thow littel tine child;
By, by, lully, lullay, thow littell tyne child;
By, by, lully, lullay.

O sisters too! how may we do,
For to preserve this day
This pore yongling, for whom we do sing
By, by, lully, lullay.

Herod the King, in his raging,
Chargid he hath this day
His men of might, in his owne sight,
All yonge children to slay.

That wo is me, pore child for the!
And ever morne and day,
For the parting nether say nor singe
By, by, lully, lullay.

Coventry Mysteries.

A DREAM CAROL.

Ah, my dear Son, said Mary, ah, my dear,
Kiss thy mother, Jesu, with a laughing cheer!

This endnes night I saw a sight
All in my sleep,
Mary, that May, she sung lullay
And sore did weep;
To keep, she sought, full fast about
Her Son from cold.
Joseph said, Wife, my joy, my life,
Say what ye would.
Nothing, my spouse, is in this house
Unto my pay;
My Son a king, that made all thing,
Lieth in hay.
Ah, my dear Son! etc.

My mother dear, amend your cheer
And now be still;
Thus for to lie it is soothly
My Father’s will.
Derision, great passion,
Infinitely,
As it is found many a wound
Suffer shall I;
On Calvary that is so high
There shall I be,
Man to restore, nailed full sore
Upon a tree.
Ah, my dear Son! etc.

Sandy’s Christmas Carols.

THE KING IN THE CRADLE.

My sweet little baby, what meanest thou to cry?
Be still, my blessed babe, though cause thou hast to mourn,
Whose blood most innocent to shed the cruel king hath sworn;
And lo, alas! behold what slaughter he doth make,
Shedding the blood of infants all, sweet Saviour, for thy sake.
A King, a King is born, they say, which King this king would kill:
O woe and woful heavy day when wretches have their will!
Lulla, la lulla, lulla lullaby.

Three kings this King of kings to see are come from far,
To each unknown, with offerings great, by guiding of a star;
And shepherds heard the song, which angels bright did sing,
Giving all glory unto God for coming of this King,
Which must be made away King Herod would him kill;
O woe and woful heavy day when wretches have their will?
Lulla, etc.

Lo, lo, my little babe, be still, lament no more;
From fury thou shalt step aside, help have we still in store:
We heavenly warning have some other soil to seek;
From death must fly the Lord of life, as lamb both mild and meek:
Thus must my babe obey the king that would him kill;
O woe and woful heavy day when wretches have their will!
Lulla, etc.

But thou shalt live and reign, as sibyls hath foresaid,
As all the prophets prophesy, whose mother, yet a maid
And perfect virgin pure, with her breasts shall upbreed
Both God and man that all hath made, the son of heavenly seed:
Whom caitives none can ’tray, whom tyrants none can kill:
O joy and joyful happy day when wretches want their will!
Lulla, etc.

Byrd’s Psalmes, Sonets, etc., A.D. 1588.

MADONNA AND CHILD.

This endris night
I saw a sight,
A star as bright as day;
And ever among
A maiden sung,
Lullay, by by, lullay.

This lovely lady sat and sang, and to her child she said,
“My son, my brother, my father dear, why liest thou thus in hayd?
My sweet bird,
Thus it is betide
Though thou be king veray;
But, nevertheless,
I will not cease
To sing, by by, lullay.”

The child then spake; in his talking he to his mother said,
“I bekid am king, in crib though I be laid;
For angels bright
Down to me light,
Thou knowest it is no nay,
And of that sight
Thou mayest be light
To sing, by by, lullay.”

“Now, sweet Son, since thou art king, why art thou laid in stall?
Why not thou ordain thy bedding in some great kinges hall?
Methinketh it is right
That king or knight
Should be in good array;
And them among
It were no wrong
To sing, by by, lullay.”

“Mary, mother, I am thy child, though I be laid in stall,
Lords and dukes shall worship me and so shall kinges all.
Ye shall well see
That kinges three
Shall come on the twelfth day;
For this behest
Give me thy breast
And sing, by by, lullay.”

“Now tell me, sweet Son, I thee pray, thou art my love and dear,
How should I keep thee to thy pay and make thee glad of cheer?
For all thy will
I would fulfil
Thou weet’st full well in fay,
And for all this
I will thee kiss,
And sing, by by, lullay.”

“My dear mother, when time it be, take thou me up aloft,
And set me upon thy knee and handle me full soft.
And in thy arm
Thou wilt me warm,
And keep me night and day;
If I weep
And may not sleep
Thou sing, by by, lullay.”

“Now, sweet Son, since it is so, all things are at thy will,
I pray thee grant to me a boon if it be right and skill,
That child or man,
That will or can,
Be merry upon my day;
To bliss them bring,
And I shall sing,
Lullay, by by, lullay.”

A ROCKING HYMN.

Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
What things to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy Father dear;
His holy Spouse thy Mother, too.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing,
For thee great blessings ripening be;
Thine eldest brother is a king,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear,
For whosoever thee offends,
By thy protector threatened are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes he took delight:
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in his sight.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A little infant once was he,
And Strength-in-Weakness then was laid
Upon his Virgin-Mother’s knee,
That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this thy frailty and thy need
He friends and helpers doth prepare,
Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,
For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
Where oxen lay and asses fed;
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that he did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee,
And by his torments and his pain
Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast (yet more), to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv’st it not.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

George Wither.

A CRADLE-SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

The Virgin stills the crying
Of Jesus, sleepless lying;
And singing for his pleasure,
Thus calls upon her treasure,
“My darling, do not weep, my Jesu, sleep!”

O lamb, my love inviting,
O star, my soul delighting,
O flower of mine own bearing,
O jewel past comparing!
My darling, etc.

My Child, of might indwelling,
My sweet, all sweets excelling,
Of bliss the fountain flowing,
The dayspring ever glowing
My darling, etc.

My joy, my exultation,
My spirit’s consolation;
My son, my spouse, my brother,
O listen to thy mother!
My darling, etc.

Say, would’st thou heavenly sweetness,
Or love of answering meetness?
Or is fit music wanting?
Ho! angels, raise your chanting!
My darling, etc.

Translated from the Latin by Rev. H. R. Bramley.

WHISPERING PALMS.

Holy angels and blest,
Through these Palms as ye sweep,
Hold their branches at rest,
For my Babe is asleep.

And ye, Bethlehem palm-trees,
As stormy winds rush
In tempest and fury
Your angry noise hush;
Move gently, move gently,
Restrain your wild sweep;
Hold your branches at rest
My Babe is asleep.

Lope de Vega.

A CHRISTMAS LULLABY.

Sleep, baby, sleep! The Mother sings;
Heaven’s angels kneel and fold their wings:
Sleep, baby, sleep!

With swathes of scented hay thy bed
By Mary’s hand at eve was spread.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

At midnight came the shepherds, they
Whom seraphs wakened by the way.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

And three kings from the East afar
Ere dawn came, guided by thy star.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

They brought thee gifts of gold and gems,
Pure orient pearls, rich diadems.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

But thou who liest slumbering there,
Art King of kings, earth, ocean, air.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds sing:
Through heaven, through earth, hosannas ring.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

John Addington Symonds.

THE VIRGIN’S CRADLE-HYMN.

Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet
Quae tam dulcem somnum videt,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
Si non dormis, Mater plorat
Inter fila cantans orat,
Blande, veni, somnule.

Translation.

Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:
Mother sits beside thee smiling;
Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth:
Come soft slumber, balmily!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

THE SOVEREIGN.

Upon my lap my sovereign sits
And sucks upon my breast;
Meantime his love maintains my life
And gives my sense her rest.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast,
Repose, my babe, on me;
So may thy mother and thy nurse
Thy cradle also be.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work
All that my wishing would,
Because I would not be to thee
But in the best I should.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may
I must and will be thine,
Though all too little for thyself
Vouchsafing to be mine.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Martin Peerson, A.D. 1620.

BY THE CRADLE-SIDE.

Sweet dreams, form a shade
O’er my lovely infant’s head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!

Sweet sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown!
Sweet sleep, angel mild,
Hover o’er my happy child!

Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother’s smile
All the livelong night beguile.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thine eyes!
Sweet moan, sweeter smile,
All the dovelike moans beguile!

Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o’er thee doth mother weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace;
Sweet babe, once like thee
Thy Maker lay and wept for me:

Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When he was an infant small;
Thou his image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee!

Smiles on thee, on me, on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are his own smiles:
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.

William Blake.

THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS.

But see, the Virgin blest
Hath laid her babe to rest.

Milton.

I.

Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One!
My flesh, my Lord! what name? I do not know
A name that seemeth not too high or low,
Too far from me or heaven.
My Jesus, that is best! that word being given
By the majestic angel whose command
Was softly as a man’s beseeching said,
When I and all the earth appeared to stand
In the great overflow
Of light celestial from his wings and head.
Sleep, sleep, my saving One!

II.

And art Thou come for saving, baby-browed
And speechless Being art Thou come for saving?
The palm that grows beside our door is bowed
By treadings of the low wind from the south,
A restless shadow through the chamber waving:
Upon its bough a bird sings in the sun;
But Thou, with that close slumber on thy mouth,
Dost seem of wind and sun already weary.
Art come for saving, O my weary One?

III.

Perchance this sleep that shutteth out the dreary
Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy soul
High dreams on fire with God;
High songs that make the pathways where they roll
More bright than stars do theirs; and visions new
Of Thine eternal nature’s old abode.
Suffer this mother’s kiss,
Best thing that earthly is,
To guide the music and the glory through,
Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad upliftings
Of any seraph wing!
Thus, noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, my dreaming One!

IV.

The slumber of His lips meseems to run
Through my lips to mine heart; to all its shiftings
Of sensual life, bring contrariousness
In a great calm. I feel, I could lie down
As Moses did, and die, and then live most.
I am ’ware of you, heavenly Presences,
That stand with your peculiar light unlost,
Each forehead with a high thought for a crown,
Unsunned i’ the sunshine! I am ’ware. Yet throw
No shade against the wall! How motionless
Ye round me with your living statuary,
While through your whiteness, in and outwardly,
Continual thoughts of God appear to go,
Like light’s soul in itself! I bear, I bear,
To look upon the dropt lids of your eyes,
Though their external shining testifies
To that beatitude within, which were
Enough to blast an eagle at his sun.
I fall not on my sad clay face before ye;
I look on His. I know
My spirit which dilateth with the woe
Of His mortality,
May well contain your glory.
Yea, drop your lids more low,
Ye are but fellow-worshippers with me!
Sleep, sleep, my worshipped One!

V.

We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem.
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
Softened their horned faces
To almost human gazes
Towards the newly born.
The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
Brought visionary looks,
As yet in their astonished hearing rung
The strange, sweet angel-tongue.
The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
With long pale beards their gifts upon the ground,
The incense, myrrh and gold,
These baby hands were impotent to hold.
So, let all earthlies and celestials wait
Upon thy royal state!
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

VI.

I am not proud meek angels, ye invest
New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest
On mortal lips, “I am not proud” not proud!
Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son,
Albeit over Him my head is bowed
As others bow before Him, still mine heart
Bows lower than their knees. O centuries
That roll, in vision, your futurities
My future grave athwart,
Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep
Watch o’er this sleep,
Say of me as the heavenly said, “Thou art
The blessedest of women!” blessedest,
Not holiest, not noblest, no high name,
Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame,
When I sit meek in heaven!

VII.

For me for me
God knows that I am feeble like the rest!
I often wandered forth, more child than maiden,
Among the midnight hills of Galilee,
Whose summits looked heaven-laden;
Listening to silence as it seemed to be
God’s voice, so soft yet strong so fain to press
Upon my heart as heaven did on the height,
And waken up its shadows by a light,
And show its vileness by a holiness.
Then I knelt down most silent like the night,
Too self-renounced for fears,
Raising my small face to the boundless blue
Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears.
God heard them falling after with His dew.

VIII.

So, seeing my corruption, can I see.
This Incorruptible now born of me
This fair new Innocence no sun did chance
To shine on, (for even Adam was no child,)
Created from my nature all defiled,
This mystery from out mine ignorance
Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more
Than others do, or I did heretofore?
Can hands wherein such burden pure has been,
Not open with the cry, “Unclean, unclean!”
More oft than any else beneath the skies?
Ah King, ah Christ, ah Son!
The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise,
Must all less lowly wait
Than I, upon thy state!
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

IX.

Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe,
Come, crown me Him a king!
Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling
Their light where fell a curse.
And make a crowning for this kingly brow!
What is my word? Each empyreal star
Sits in a sphere afar
In shining ambuscade:
The child-brow, crowned by none,
Keeps its unchildlike shade.
Sleep, sleep, my crownless One!

X.

Unchildlike shade! no other babe doth wear
An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.
No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen,
To float like speech the speechless lips between;
No dovelike cooing in the golden air,
No quick short joys of leaping babyhood.
Alas, our earthly good
In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee:
Yet, sleep, my weary One!

XI.

And then the drear, sharp tongue of prophecy,
With the dread sense of things which shall be done,
Doth smite me inly, like a sword a sword?
(That “smites the Shepherd!”) then I think aloud
The words “despised,” “rejected,” every word
Recoiling into darkness as I view
The darling on my knee.
Bright angels, move not! lest ye stir the cloud
Betwixt my soul and His futurity!
I must not die, with mother’s work to do,
And could not live and see.

XII.

It is enough to bear
This image still and fair
This holier in sleep,
Than a saint at prayer:
This aspect of a child
Who never sinned or smiled
This presence in an infant’s face:
This sadness most like love,
This love than love more deep,
This weakness like omnipotence,
It is so strong to move!
Awful is this watching place,
Awful what I see from hence
A king, without regalia,
A God, without the thunder,
A child, without the heart for play;
Ay, a Creator rent asunder
From His first glory and cast away
On His own world, for me alone
To hold in hands created, crying Son!

XIII.

That tear fell not on Thee
Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in Thy slumber!
Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out of number
Which through the vibratory palm-trees run
From summer wind and bird,
So quickly hast Thou heard
A tear fall silently?
Wak’st Thou, O loving One?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

A BEDSIDE DITTY.

Baby, baby dear,
Earth and heaven are near
Now, for heaven is here.

Heaven is every place
Where your flower-sweet face
Fills our eyes with grace.

Till your own eyes deign
Earth a glance again,
Earth and heaven are twain.

Now your sleep is done,
Shine, and show the sun
Earth and heaven are one.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

GIVEN BACK ON CHRISTMAS MORN.

(A MOTHER WATCHES BY HER SICK BABE.)

Round about the casement
Wail the winds of winter;
Shaken from the frozen eaves
Many an icy splinter.
On the hillside, in the hollow,
Weaving wreaths of snow:
Now in gusts of solemn music
Lost in murmurs low;
Howling now across the wold
In its shroudlike vastness,
Like the wolves about a fold
In some Alpine fastness,
Hungered by the cold.

(THE MOTHER SINGS.)

Babe of mine babe of mine,
Must I lose you?
Dare I weep if the Divine
Will should choose you?
Ah, to mourn, as I have smiled,
At the thought of you, my child!
Ah, my child my child!

Babe of mine you entwine
With existence!
If one strips the clinging vine
There’s resistance
Shall not I then ? I talk wild,
Seeing Death so near my child:
Ah, my child my child!

Babe of mine heart’s best wine
Life’s pure essence!
Gloomy shadows, that define
Death’s near presence.
Dim those dear eyes, undefiled
As God’s violets ah, my child:
Ah, my child my child!

The imperial purple of the night
Is spread, wine-dark, above,
But glistens with no gems of light,
To hint of Heaven’s love.
A sombre pall hangs overhead,
Fringed with lurid clouds of lead,
O’er the sleeping earth below
One long, wide waste of silent snow,
And the wind moans drearily
As it wanders by,
And the night wanes wearily
In the starlight sky.

(THE MOTHER SINGS.)

Must the dear eyes close?
Must the lips be still?
How I love their speech that flows
Like a wanton rill!
Must those cheeks, soft-tinged with rose,
Pallid grow and chill?
Give her back to me, angel in disguise!
So your mystery I shall learn yet with tearless eyes.
By the pangs, the prayers,
By the mother’s glee,
By her hopes, her fears, her cares,
Give my child to me
Give it back to me!

Quenched the eye’s soft light,
Hushed the cowslip breath!
Going, darling, in the night?
Spare oh, spare her, Death!
Dying is it so?
Oh, it must not be!
Can my one poor treasure go?
Give her back to me,
Give her back to me:
Or take me too, left alone,
Now my little one is gone;
Ah, my child, my child!

Among the clouds that sail o’erhead
A yellow radiance is shed;
And o’er the hill-tops wrapt in snow,
Is born a tinge of rosy glow.
Within the air a stir like wings
Of angels in their minist’rings;
A tremulous motion, and a thrill,
As with faint light the heavens fill.
Night’s sombre clouds are slow withdrawn,
And nature cries, Awake, ’tis dawn.

About the lonely casement
Blows fresh the breath of day;
The mother, in amazement,
Sees death-glooms fade away!

The blue eyes open once again,
Once more the lips have smiled
Her tears fell like the spring-time rain:
God gives her back her child!

Hush, there are footsteps on the snow,
That pause the lattice-pane below;
While voices chant the carol-rhymes,
The Christmas song of olden times:

Awake, good Christians! Long ago
The shepherds waked at night,
And saw the heavens with glory glow,
And angels in the light.
Hosanna! sing, Hosanna! sing,
Hosanna in the height!

New life they told to all on earth,
New life and blessing bright,
Forewarning of the Saviour’s birth,
In Bethlehem this night.
Hosanna! sing, Hosanna! sing,
Hosanna in the height!

New life to all, new life to all,
The tidings good recite!
New life to all, which did befall
At Bethlehem this night.
Hosanna! sing, Hosanna! sing,
Hosanna in the height!

The voices hushed the footsteps died
In distance far aloof,
It seemed a blessing did abide
Upon that silent roof,
As far away their cheery singing
Upon the frosty air came ringing.

Among the clouds that sail o’erhead
A yellow glory is outspread;
And on the hill-tops crowned with snows,
A rosy blushing radiance grows,
As wider still the warm light glows:
And flooding daylight falls again
From cloud to hill from hill to plain.

A golden sea of swimming light
Poured o’er the sombre shores of night,
While the glad mother, to her breast
Her child yet close and closer pressed,
Her rescued treasure newly born
Her babe given back on Christmas morn.

Thomas Hood.

A LULLING 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.

How much better thou’rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven He descended,
And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle:
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When His birthplace was a stable,
And His softest bed was hay.

See the kinder shepherds round Him,
Telling wonders from the sky!
Where they sought Him, there they found Him
With His Virgin-Mother by.

See the lovely Babe a-dressing;
Lovely Infant, how He smiled!
When He wept, the Mother’s blessing
Soothed and hush’d the holy Child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger,
Where the horned oxen fed;
Peace, my darling, here’s no danger;
Here’s no ox a-near thy bed!

May’st thou live to know and fear Him,
Trust and love Him all thy days;
Then go dwell forever near Him,
See His face and sing His praise!

I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother’s fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.

Isaac Watts.

GOOD-NIGHT.

Good-night, good-night, the day is done;
Rock, rock the cradle, little one;
The lamp is low, and low the sun,
Good-night!

Good-night, good-night, the Christmas bough
Bends to the rocking wind, and thou
To mother’s ditty noddest now,
Good-night!

Good-night, good-night, the holy day
Bring baby sweets, and sweets alway!
Rock, rock then, tiptoe, steal away,
Good-night!

H. S. M.