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NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.
BEHOLD a silly* tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
Alas! a piteous sight:
This little Pilgrim bed;
In crib to shrowd His head.
First what He is inquire :
In depth of dirty mire.
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
The crib His chair of State:
The wooden dish His plate.
His royal liveries wear,
This pomp is prized there.
Do homage to thy King;
Which He from Heaven doth bring.
ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR.
I sing the birth was born to-night,
The angels so did sound it.
Yet searched, and true they found it.
The Son of God, th’ Eternal King,
And freed the soul from danger;
Was now laid in a manger.
FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.
The following Christmas hymn is by Bishop Hall, one of the earliest of our satiric poets, and one of the most celebrated of our old divines. He was contemporary with Shakspeare, Jonson, Spenser, and the other lights of the Elizabethan age. He, however, survived them all, and passing through the troublous times of the Commonwealth, exposed to the persecutions of the Roundhead party, died at Higham, near Norwich, in 1656.
FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.
IMMORTAL Babe, who this dear day
Shine, happy star, ye angels, sing
Worship, ye sages of the east,
William Drummond, of Hawthornden, the author of the two following sonnets, will be remembered as the friend of Ben Jonson, who undertook a journey to Scotland on foot, for the purpose of seeing, and conversing with one who was only known to him through the medium of correspondence. This meeting, however, did not tend to enhance their mutual regard; and Drummond left behind him at his death a manuscript account of the interview, which indicated in plain terms his disapprobation of Jonson's want of refinement, both as regards his manners and habits.
Run Shepherds, run where Bethlem blest appears,
We bring the best of news, be not dismayed,
Amidst Heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed ;
There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid,
This is that night, no—day grown great with bliss,
In which the power of Satan broken is;
Thus singing through the air the Angels swam,
cope of stars re-echoed the same.
O THAN the fairest day, thrice fairer night!
Night to best days in which a sun doth rise,
Of which that golden eye, which clears the skies, Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow light : And blessed ye, in silly pastor's sight,
Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies That Heaven-sent Youngling, holy Maid-born Wight,
Midst, end, beginning of our prophesies : 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 on knees, And springs ran nectar, honey dropt from trees.