A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR. BEN JONSON. I SING the birth was born to-night, The angels so did sound it, The Son of God, th' Eternal King, That did us all salvation bring, And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven and earth did make, Was now laid in a manger. The Father's wisdom willed it so, And as that wisdom had decreed, What comfort by Him do we win, To make us heirs of Glory! To see this babe, all innocence, Can man forget this story? FOR CHRISTMAS DAY. The following Christmas hymn is by Bishop Hall, one 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. BISHOP HALL. MMORTAL Babe, who this dear day Shine, happy star, ye angels, sing Glory on high to Heaven's King. Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch, See Heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch. Worship, ye sages of the east, The King of God in meanness dressed. O blessed maid, smile and adore The God thy womb and arms have bore. Star, angels, shepherds, and wild sages, Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth! 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 sceing, 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, A Saviour there is born, more old than years, Amidst Heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed; There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid, A weakling did Him bear, who all upbears, 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, 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 Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed, And springs ran nectar, honey dropt from trees. GEORGE HERBERT. ALL after pleasures as I rid one day, My horse and I, both tired, body and mind, With full cry of affections, quite astray, I took up in the next inn I could find; There when I came, whom found I but my dear, My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief Of pleasures brought me to him, ready there To be all passengers' most sweet relief? O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light, Wrapt in night's mantle, stole into a manger; Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right, To man of all beasts be not thou a stranger: Furnish and deck my soul, that thou mayst have A better lodging, than a rack or grave. The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be? My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds The pasture is thy word; the streams, thy grace Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Outsing the daylight hours. Then we will chide the sun for letting night Take up his place and right: We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should Himself the candle hold. I will go searching, till I find a sun Shall stay till we have done; A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly, |