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NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.

Behold a silly, tender Babe,

In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies;

Alas! a piteous sight.

The inns are full, no man will yield

This little pilgrim bed;
But forced He is with silly beasts

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 beasts are parcel of His pomp,

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;
And highly praise this humble pomp
Which He from heaven doth bring.

Robert Southwell.

OF THE EPIPHANY.

Fair eastern star, that art ordained to run
Before the sages, to the rising sun,
Here cease thy course, and wonder that the

cloud.
Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud:
Ye heavenly bodies glory to be bright,
And are esteemed as ye are rich in light;
But here on earth is taught a different way,
Since under this low roof the Highest lay.
Jerusalem erects her stately towers,
Displays her windows and adorns her bowers;
Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark,
Let Herod’s palace still continue dark;
Each school and synagogue thy force repels,
There pride enthroned in misty error dwells ;
The temple, where the priests maintain their

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 enwrap a speechless child.

Of the Epiphany.

65

Yet Sabæ's lords before this babe unfold
Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh, and

gold.
The crib becomes an altar; therefore dies
No ox nor sheep; for in their fodder lies
The Prince of Peace, who, thankful for His bed,
Destroys those rites in which their blood was

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.

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A HYMN FOR THE EPIPHANY.

SUNG AS BY THE THREE KINGS.

1 King. Bright Babe! whose awful beauties

make

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,
Thus far from home
The East is come

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,
Lo, at last have found our way.

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