RUN Shepherds, run where Bethlem blest appears, 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, And cope of stars re-echoèd the same. 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; my dark soul and brutish is thy right, Since 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, THE SHEPHERD'S SONG. Then we will sing, and shine all our own day, And one another pay: His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine, THE SHEPHERD'S SONG. EDMUND BOLTON. SWEET Music, sweeter far Than any song is sweet Sweet Music heavenly rare, Mine ears, O peers, doth greet. You gentle flocks-whose fleeces, pearled with dew, Resemble Heaven, whom golden drops make bright— Listen, O listen, now; O not to you Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night; But voices most divine Make blissful harmony Voices that seem to shine; For what else clears the sky? Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see: Lo, how the firmament Within an azure fold The flock of stars hath pent, That we might them behold. Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light, The heavens are come down upon earth to live. These choristers do sing. Angels they are, as also Shepherds, He Whom in our fear we do admire to see. Let not amazement blind Your souls, said he, annoy : Το you and all mankind My message bringeth joy. For lo, the world's great Shepherd now is born, Sprung is the perfect day, By prophets seen afar, Which Winter cannot mar. In David's city doth this Sun appear, Clouded in flesh, yet Shepherds sit we here. "Under the greenwood tree, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; No enemy, But winter and rough weather." SHAKSPEARE. The following extracts comprise descriptions of Winter and the Christmas season, by the three greatest poets of the Elizabethan era, viz., Shakspeare, Spenser, and Jonson. These are preceded by some nervous lines penned by old Sackville, whose writings gave the tone to the revival of poetry at the commencement of Elizabeth's reign. Like the mere fragment quoted from Chaucer, they are the slightest possible |