Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; 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 damnèd crew. So, when the Sun in bed, 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-teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp, attending : 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. Refusing, 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. OME we shepherds, whose blest sight To all our world of well-stoll'n joy, 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; Tit. Gloomy night embraced the place Where the noble infant lay; The Babe looked up and shewed his face, It was thy day, Sweet! and did rise, 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: Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Bright dawn of our eternal day! Tit. Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do Is this the best thou canst bestow, A cold, and not too cleanly, manger? Thyrs. Proud world, said I, cease 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, HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. Tit. I saw the curled drops, soft and slow, Your fleece is white, but 't is too cold. Thyrs. I saw the obsequious seraphims Well done, said I; but are you sure Tit. No, no, your King's not yet to seck "Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed. Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow. Both. We saw Thee in thy balmy nest, 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 religions 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, A glorious star the sign, But of a greater guest than ever came that way, 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. |