Just before him rose a mountain,
Dark its outline, steep its side —
Down its slopes that midnight music
Seemed so soothingly to glide.
"I will find it," said the pilgrim,
"Though this mountain I must scale" —
Scarcely said, when on his vision
Shone a distant light, and pale.
Glad he was; and now he hastened —
Brighter, brighter grew the ray —
Stronger, stronger swelled the music
As he struggled on his way.
Soon he gained the mountain summit,
Lo! a church bursts on his view:
From the church that light was flowing,
And that gentle music, too.
Near he came — its door stood open —
Still he stood in awe and fear;
"Shall I enter spot so holy?
Am I unforbidden here?
I will enter — something bids me —
Saintly men are praying here;
Vigils sacred they are keeping,
'Tis their Matin song I hear."
Softly, noiselessly, he glided
Through the portal; on his sight
Shone a vision, bright, strange, thrilling;
Down he knelt — 'twas Christmas night —
Down, in deepest adoration,
Knelt the lonely pilgrim there;
Joy unearthly, rapture holy,
Blended with his whispered prayer.
Wrapped his senses were in wonder,
On his soul an awe profound,
As the vision burst upon him,
'Mid sweet light and sweeter sound.
"Is it real? is it earthly?
Is it all a fleeting dream?
Hark! those choral voices ringing,
Lo! those forms like angels seem."
On his view there rose an altar,
Glittering 'mid a thousand beams,
Flowing from the burning tapers
In bright, sparkling, silver streams.
From unnumbered crystal vases,
Rose and bloomed the fairest flowers,
Shedding 'round their balmy fragrance
'Mid the lights in sweetest showers.
Rich and gorgeous was the altar,
Decked it was in purest white.
Mortal hands had not arrayed it
Thus, upon that Christmas night.
Amid its lights and lovely flowers,
The little tabernacle stood;
Around it all was rich and golden,
It alone was poor and rude.
Hark! Venite Adoremus!
Round the golden altar sounds —
See that band of angels kneeling
Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns!
And the pilgrim looked and listened,
And he saw the angels there,
And their snow-white wings were folded,
As they bent in silent prayer.
Twelve they were; bright rays of glory
Round their brows effulgent shone;
But a wreath of nobler beauty
Seemed to grace and circle one;
And he, beauteous, rose and opened
Wide the tabernacle door:
Hark! Venite Adoremus
Rises — bending, they adore.
Lo! a sound of censers swinging!
Clouds of incense weave around
The altar rich a silver mantle,
As the angels' hymns resound.
List! Venite Adoremus
Swells aloud in stronger strain,
And the angels swing the censers,
And they prostrate bend again.