Puslapio vaizdai
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Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest ;

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark,

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.

He feels from Judah's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

Nor all the Gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine;

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So, when the Sun in bed,
Curtained with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave;

And the yellow-skirted fays,

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see, the Virgin blest,

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:

Heaven's youngest-teemèd star

Hath fixed her polished car,

Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp, attending:
And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

HYMN OF THE NATIVITY.

Crashaw, the author of the annexed hymn, was the son of a clergyman of the Church of England, and received his education at Cambridge; after taking his degree, he became a fellow of Peterhouse College. Rcfusing, however, to subscribe to the parliamentary covenant, he was ejected from his fellowship, when he proceeded to France and embraced the Roman Catholic faith. His conversion probably arose from interested motives, as, having been recommended to Henrietta Maria by his friend Cowley the poet, a canonry in the Church of Loretto was conferred on him. This dignity he only lived to enjoy for a short time, as he died of a fever in 1650, soon after his induction.

HYMN OF THE NATIVITY,

SUNG BY THE SHEPHERDS.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

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OME we shepherds, whose blest sight
Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night;
Come lift we up our loftier song,
And wake the sun that lies too long.

To all our world of well-stoll'n joy,

He slept, and dreamt of no such thing;
While we found out Heaven's fairer eye,
And kissed the cradle of our King;

Tell him he rises now too late

To show us ought worth looking at.

Tell him we now can show him more

Than he e'er showed to mortal sight,

Than he himself e'er saw before,

Which to be seen needs not his light:
Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been;
Tell him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen.

Tit. Gloomy night embraced the place

Where the noble infant lay;

The Babe looked up and shewed his face,
In spite of darkness it was day-

It was thy day, Sweet! and did rise,
Not from the East, but from Thine eyes.

Thyrs. Winter chid aloud, and sent

The angry North to wage

his wars;

The North forgot his fierce intent,

And left perfumes instead of scars :
By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers,
Where he meant frost, he scattered flowers.

Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,

Bright dawn of our eternal day!
We saw Thine eyes break from their East,
And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee, and we blessed the sight,—
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Tit. Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do
To entertain this starry Stranger?

Is this the best thou canst bestow,

A cold, and not too cleanly, manger?

Contend, ye powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Thyrs. Proud world, said I, ccase your contest,

And let the mighty Babe alone;

The phoenix build the phoenix' nest,

Love's architecture is all one:

The Babe whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed ere He was born.

HYMN OF THE NATIVITY.

Tit. I saw the curled drops, soft and slow,
Come hovering o'er the place's head,
Offering their whitest sheets of snow,
To furnish the fair Infant's bed:
Forbear, said I, be not too bold,

Your fleece is white, but 't is too cold.

Thyrs. I saw the obsequious seraphims
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,
For well they now can spare their wings,
Since Heaven itself lies here below:

Well done, said I; but are you sure
Your down so warm will pass for pure?

Tit. No, no, your King's not yet to seek
Where to repose His royal head;
See, see, how soon His new-bloomed cheek
"Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed.
Sweet choice, said I, no way but so

Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.

Both. We saw Thee in thy balmy nest,
Bright dawn of our eternal day;
We saw Thine eyes break from their east,

And chase the trembling shades away.
We saw Thee, and we blessed the sight;
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

The following poem is by Bishop Jeremy Taylor, whose eloquent prose writings cause him to be regarded as one of the ornaments of the English Church. He was a man of singular humility and piety, and irreproachable in all the duties of life. During the civil troubles, he warmly attached himself to the cause of Charles I., one of whose chap

lains he had been, and suffered imprisonment in consequence. He lived to lend the lustre of his name to the era following the Restoration, when a depraved monarch, and a licentious court, had banished both religious and moral purity beyond the circle of their pernicious influence.

OF CHRIST'S BIRTH IN AN INN.

JEREMY TAYLOR.

THE blessed Virgin travailed without pain,
And lodged in an inn,

A glorious star the sign,

But of a greater guest than ever came that way,
For there He lay

That is the God of night and day,

And over all the pow'rs of heav'n doth reign.
It was the time of great Augustus' tax,

And then He comes

That pays all sums,

Even the whole price of lost humanity;

And sets us free

From the ungodly emperie

Of Sin, of Satan, and of Death.

Oh, make our hearts, blest God, Thy lodging-place !
And in our breast

Be pleased to rest,

For Thou lov'st temples better than an inn,

And cause that Sin

May not profane the Deity within,

And sully o'er the ornaments of grace.

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