Christmas Day

So from his sphere

The Lord of Light doth come,
And passing here

His crystal Mother's womb

Leaves her entirely whole, yet brings away
Her perfect image, born a man to-day.

He who did wear

God's radiant boundless form

Shrinks himself here

Into a simple worm.

Heaven moulded up in earth; Eternity
Grasp'd in a span of time doth bounded lie.

All Paradise

Collected in one bud

Doth sweetly rise

From its fair Virgin bed:

Omnipotence an Infant's shape puts on,
Immensity becomes a Little One.

But only LOVE

Would not thus scanted be,

But stoutly strove

'Gainst this conspiracy

Of strange Epitomies, and did display

Itself more full on this contracting day.

JOSEPH BEAUMONT

47.

LIK

SONNET XXV

Incarnatio est maximum Dei donum.

IKE as the fountain of all light created
Doth pour out streams of brightness undefin'd

Through all the conduits of transparent kind,
That heaven and air are both illuminated,
And yet his light is not thereby abated;
So God's eternal bounty ever shin'd

The beams of being, moving, life, sense, mind;
And to all things himself communicated
But for the violent diffusive pleasure

Of goodness that left not till God had spent
Himself by giving us himself his treasure
In making man a God omnipotent.

How might this goodness draw ourselves above
Which drew down God with such attractive love!
JOSEPH BEAUMONT

48. ON THE NATIVITY OF OUR SAVIOUR

HY does the frowning winter smile

WHY

And check his fierce intent?

Why does he curb his ruffling powers,
As he for snow would sprinkle flowers?
There is a reason for this guile,

'Twas but to pay his rent:

It is the best that Huff-capp gives
At the great birth

Of publicke mirth,

And pay'd, no longer lives.

On the Nativity of our Saviour

The Babe unveils His lovely face
To chase the shades away;
As soon as He casts up His eyes
A sudden brightness will arise

To gild the room does Him embrace;
In spite of clouds 'tis Day.
Lodg'd in His mother's bosom He
May sleep in snow,
(Without cold tho')

For down from cold is free.

Be not amazèd, souls, for this
Is but the half of Joy ;

The Angels spare their nimble wings,
For now they're but superfluous things;
To men, since Heaven descended is
Contracted in a Boy.

The Rose of Sharon's budded now
And every thing
Portends a spring.

December snows adieu:

Adieu, but stay: a Subject prov'd a Ring,
Presents as great, as splendid, offering.

My breast's the mine whence golden precepts rise,
Myrrh drops in bitter tears from virgin eyes.
Frankincense, praise 's furnish'd with desert
Offered upon no altar but my heart,
This reinvites my God unto my breast
And spreads the table for the welcome guest.

On the Nativity of our Saviour

Tho' gold, myrrh, frankincense, kings off'red Thee,
Thou'st frankincense, with gold and myrrh from me.
If these shrink in performance, at Thy eyes
I'll trine my selfe and prove Thy sacrifice.

M. J.

49.

SWE

THE SHEPHERDS

WEET, harmless live[r]s! on whose holy leisure,
Waits innocence and pleasure;

Whose leaders to those pastures and clear springs

Were patriarchs, saints, and kings;

How happen'd it that in the dead of night

You only saw true light,

While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay

Without one thought of day?

Was it because those first and blessèd swains

Were pilgrims on those plains

When they received the promise, for which now 'Twas there first shown to you?

'Tis true he loves that dust whereon they go

That serve him here below,

And therefore might for memory of those

His love there first disclose;

But wretched Salem, once his love, must now

No voice nor vision know;

Her stately piles with all their height and pride

Now languished and died,

The Shepherds

And Bethlem's humble cots above them stept
While all her seers slept;

Her cedar, fir, hewed stones, and gold were all
Polluted through their fall;

And those once sacred mansions were now
Mere emptiness and show.

This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,

Yet where the shepherds watch,

And God's own lodging, though he could not lack,

To be a common rack.

No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury

In those thin cells could lie;

Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots,
Which never harboured plots;

Only content and love and humble joys

Lived there without all noise;

Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day

Did in their bosoms play,

As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
What springs or shades to look;

But that was all; and now with gladsome care
They for the town prepare;

They leave their flock, and in a busy talk

All towards Bethlem walk,

To seek their soul's great Shepherd, who was come
To bring all stragglers home;

Where now they find Him out, and, taught before,

That Lamb of God adore,

That Lamb, whose days great kings and prophets wished
And longed to see, but missed.