Of the Epiphany

While this weak cottage all thy splendour takes:
A joyful gate of every chink it makes.
Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair,
No king exalted in a stately chair,

Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled,
But straw and hay enwrap a speechless Child.
Yet Sabae's lords before this Babe unfold
Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh, and gold.

The crib becomes an altar: therefore dies
No ox nor sheep; for in their fodder lies

The Prince of Peace, who, thankful for His bed,
Destroys those rites in which their blood was shed:
The quintessence of earth He takes, and fees,
And precious gums distilled from weeping trees;
Rich metals and sweet odours now declare
The glorious blessings which His laws prepare,
To clear us from the base and loathsome flood
Of sense, and make us fit for angels' food,
Who lift to God for us the holy smoke
Of fervent prayers with which we Him invoke,
And try our actions in the searching fire,
By which the seraphims our lips inspire:
No muddy dross pure minerals shall infect,
We shall exhale our vapours up direct:

No storm shall cross, nor glittering lights deface
Perpetual sighs which seek a happy place.

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT

32.

R

THE ANGELS

UN, shepherds, run, where Bethlehem blest appears,
We bring the best of news; be not dismayed;

A Saviour there is born more old than years,

Amidst heaven's rolling height this earth who stayed.
In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid

A weakling did Him bear, who all upbears;
There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid,
To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres:
Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize His birth.
This is that night-no, day, grown great with bliss,
In which the power of Satan broken is:
In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth!
Thus singing, through the air the angels swam,
of stars re-echoèd the same.

And cope

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

33.

O

THE SHEPHERDS

THAN the fairest day, thrice fairer night! Night to blest 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 prophecies!

The Shepherds

Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread, Though withered-blessèd 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 dropped from trees.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

34.

SWE

A ROCKING HYMN

WEET baby, sleep! What ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep!

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy Father dear;
His holy spouse thy mother too.

Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep!

Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing,

For thee great blessings ripening be;
Thine Eldest Brother is a King,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.

Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A Rocking Hymn

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends
By thy protector threatened are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes He took delight:
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in His sight.

Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A little Infant once was He,

And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His virgin-mother's knee, That power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this thy frailty and thy need

He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are.

Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

35.

A Rocking Hymn

Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
Where oxen lay and asses fed;
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.

Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by His torments and His pain
Thy rest and ease securèd be.

My baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

GLORIA IN EXCELSIS

GEORGE WITHER

S on the night before this happy morn,

A a blessed angel unto shepherds told

Where (in a stable) He was poorly born,

Whom nor the earth nor heaven of heavens can hold :

Thro' Bethlehem rung

This news at their return;

Yea, angels sung

That God with us was born;

And they made mirth because we should not mourn.