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NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.
Behold a silly, tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
Alas! a piteous sight.
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little pilgrim bed;
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there,
First what He is inquire; An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beast that by Him feed ; Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a prince's court,
This crib His chair of state;
The wooden dish His plate.
New Prince, New Pomp.
63 The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear; The Prince himself is come from heaven, This pomp is praised there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight!
Do homage to thy King;
OF THE EPIPHANY.
Fair eastern star, that art ordained to run
Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud :
quire, Shall taste no beam of thy celestial fire, While this weak cottage all thy splendor takes : A joyful gate of every chink it makes. Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair, No king exalted in a stately chair, Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled, But straw and hay en wrap a speechless child.
Of the Epiphany.
Yet Sabæ's lords before this babe unfold
shed: The quintessence of earth He takes, and fees, And precious gums distilled from weeping trees; Rich metals and sweet odors now declare The glorious blessings which His laws prepare, To clear us from the base and loathsome flood Of sense and make us fit for angel's food, Who lift to God for us the holy smoke Of fervent prayers with which we Him invoke, And try our actions in the searching fire By which the seraphims our lips inspire: No muddy dross pure minerals shall infect, We shall exhale our vapors up direct: No storm shall cross, nor glittering lights deface Perpetual sighs which seek a happy place.
Sir John Beaumont.
A HYMN FOR THE EPIPHANY.
SUNG AS BY THE THREE KINGS.
1 King. Bright Babe! whose awful beauties
The morn incur a sweet mistake ; 2 King. For whom the officious heavens devise
To disinherit the sun's rise ; 3 King. Delicately to displace
The day, and plant it fairer in Thy
face; 1 King. 0 Thou born King of loves! 2 King. Of lights ! 3 King. Of joys! Chorus. Look up, sweet Babe, look up and see !
For love of Thee,
To seek herself in Thy sweet eyes. 1 King. We who strangely went astray,
Lost in a bright
Meridian night; 2 King. A darkness made of too much day; 3 King. Beckoned from far
By Thy fair star,