But forced He is with silly beasts, In crib to shroud His head. Despise Him not for lying here, An orient pearl is often found In depth of dirty mire. Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish, Nor beasts that by Him feed: Weigh not His mother's poor attire, Nor Joseph's simple weed. This stable is a Prince's court, The crib His chair of state; The beasts are parcel of His pomp, The wooden dish His plate; The persons in that poor attire, His royal liveries wear; The Prince himself is come from Heaven, This pomp is prizèd there. With joy approach, O Christian wight, Do homage to thy King; And highly praise His humble pomp, Which He from Heaven doth bring. FOR CHRISTMAS DAY. [THIS Christmas Hymn is by Bishop Hall, equally celebrated as an eminent divine, and a satiric poet. He was a contemporary of Shakespeare, Jonson, Spenser, and the other stars of the Elizabethan age.] MMORTAL Babe, who this dear day Eternal Son of God, all hail! Thine, happy star, ye angels, sing Glory on high to Heaven's King. Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch, See heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch. Worship, ye sages of the east, The King of God in meanness dressed. O blessed maid, smile and adore Star, angels, shepherds, and wild sages, Thou virgin glory of all ages, Restored frame of Heaven and Earth, Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth! THE SHEPHERDS' SONG. [THIS Carol, or Hymn for Christmas, as it is termed in the original, was composed by Edmund Bolton: it is reprinted from England's Helicon, 1600.] WEET Music, sweeter far Sweet music heavenly rare, Mine ears, 0 peers, doth greet. You gentle flocks-whose fleeces, pearled with dew, Resemble Heaven, whom golden drops make bright Listen, O listen, now; O not to you Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night, But voices most divine Make blissful harmony Voices that seem to shine; For what else clears the sky? Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see; Lo, how the firmament Within an azure fold The flock of stars hath pent, That we might them behold. Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light, Nor can their crystals such reflection give. What then doth make the element so bright? The heavens are come down upon earth to live. But hearken to the song, Glory to glory's King, And peace all men among, These choristers do sing. Angels they are, as also Shepherds, He Whom in our fear we do admire to see. "Let not amazement blind To Your souls," said he, "annoy: My message bringeth joy. For lo, the world's great Shepherd now is born, A blessed babe, an Infant full of power: |