Samuel Taylor Coleridge — A Christmas Carol

I        &nbspThe shepherds went their hasty way,        &nbsp       &nbspAnd found the lowly stable-shed        &nbspWhere the Virgin-Mother lay:        &nbsp       &nbspAnd now they checked their eager tread, For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. II        &nbspThey told her how a glorious light,        &nbsp       &nbspStreaming from a heavenly throng,        &nbspAround them shone, suspending night!        &nbsp       &nbspWhile sweeter than a mother's song, Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth, Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth. III        &nbspShe listened to the tale divine,        &nbsp       &nbspAnd closer still the Babe she pressed;        &nbspAnd while she cried, the Babe is mine!        &nbsp       &nbspThe milk rushed faster to her breast: Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born. IV        &nbspThou Mother of the Prince of Peace,        &nbsp       &nbspPoor, simple, and of low estate!        &nbspThat strife should vanish, battle cease,        &nbsp       &nbspO why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,— Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory? V        &nbspAnd is not War a youthful king,        &nbsp       &nbspA stately Hero clad in mail?        &nbspBeneath his footsteps laurels spring;        &nbsp       &nbspHim Earth's majestic monarchs hail Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. VI        &nbsp'Tell this in some more courtly scene,        &nbsp       &nbspTo maids and youths in robes of state!        &nbspI am a woman poor and mean,        &nbsp       &nbspAnd therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the agéd father tears his child! VII        &nbsp'A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,        &nbsp       &nbspHe kills the sire and starves the son;        &nbspThe husband kills, and from her board        &nbsp       &nbspSteals all his widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. VIII        &nbsp'Then wisely is my soul elate,        &nbsp       &nbspThat strife should vanish, battle cease:        &nbspI'm poor and of a low estate,        &nbsp       &nbspThe Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn: Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.