VII.

"An Ode of the Birth of our Saviour."

KN Numbers, and but thefe few,
I fing Thy Birth, Oh JESU!
Thou prettie Babie, borne here,
With fup'rabundant scorn here:
Who for Thy Princely Port here,
Hadft for Thy place

Of Birth, a base

Out-ftable for Thy Court here.

Instead of neat Inclosures
Of inter-woven Ofiers;
Instead of fragrant Pofies
Of Daffadills, and Rofes;
Thy cradle, Kingly Stranger,
As Gospell tells,

Was nothing els,

But, here, a homely manger.

But we with Silks, not Cruells,
With fundry precious Jewells,
And Lilly-work will dreffe Thee ;
And as we difpoffeffe Thee

Of clouts, wee'l make a chamber,

Sweet Babe, for Thee,

Of Ivorie,

And plaister'd round with Amber.

The Jews they did disdaine Thee,
But we will entertaine Thee

With Glories to await here
Upon Thy Princely State here,
And more for love, then pittie.
From yeere to yeere

Wee'l make Thee, here,
A Free-born of our Citie.

Robert Herrick.

VIII.

ARK! the Herald Angels fing,

66

Glory to the new-born King, “Peace on earth and mercy mild, "God and finner reconcil'd." Hark! the Herald Angels fing, "Glory to the new-born King."

Joyful, all ye nations, rife,

Join the triumph of the skies,
With the angelic host proclaim,
Chrift is born in Bethlehem.

Hark! the Herald Angels fing,
"Glory to the new-born King."

Chrift by highest Heaven ador'd,
Christ the everlasting Lord!
Late in time behold Him come,
Offfpring of a Virgin's wombe.

Hark! the Herald Angels fing,
"Glory to the new-born King."

N

Hail the Heaven-born Prince of Peace
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Rifen with healing in His wings.

Hark! the Herald Angels fing,

Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the fons of earth,

Born to give them second birth.

Hark! the Herald Angels fing,

"Glory to the new-born King."

J. C. W.

IX.

"New Prince, new Pompe."

EHOLD a filly tender Babe,

In freezing Winter night

In homely Manger trembling lies ;
Alas, a piteous fight:

The Innes are full, no man will yeeld

This little Pilgrim bed;

But forc't He is with filly beafts,

In crib to fhrowd His head.
Defpife Him not for lying there,
First what He is enquire:
An Orient pearle is often found
In depth of dirty mire.

Waigh not His Crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beast that by Him feed:
Waigh not His Mothers poore attire,
Nor Jofephs fimple weed.

This Stable is a Princes Court,

The Crib His chaire of State:
The beafts are parcell of His Pompe,
The wooden dish His plate.
The perfons in that poore attire,

His royall liveries weare,

The Prince Himfelfe is come from heaven,
This pompe is prized there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight,

Doe homage to thy King;

And highly praise His humble Pompe,

Which He from Heaven doth bring.

Robert Southwell.

X.

"Christmas."

HE Shepherds fing; and shall I filent be?
My God, no hymne for Thee?

My foul's a fhepherd too; a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.

The pasture is Thy word: the streams, Thy Grace
Enriching all the place.

Shepherd and flock fhall fing, and all my powers

Out-fing the day-light houres.

George Herbert.

XI.

"An Hymne of the Nativity, fung as by the Shepheards."

CHORUS.

OME we fhepheards whofe bleft fight
Hath met Loves noone, in Natures night,
Come lift we up our loftier fong,
And wake the Sun that lyes too long.

To all our world of well-stoln joy,

He flept, and dreamt of no fuch thing;
While we found out Heav'ns fairer

And kift the cradle of our King;
Tell him he rifes now too late,
To fhow us ought worth looking at.

eye,

Tell him we now can fhew him more
Than he e're fhewd to mortall fight,
Than he himself e're faw before

Which to be feen needs not his light;
Tell him Tityrus where th' hast been,
Tell him Thyrfis what th' hast seen.

Tit. Gloomy night embrac't the place
Where the noble Infant lay,

The Babe look't up and fhew'd His face,
In spite of darkneffe it was day