 | A box of spikenard |  |
TO THE Right Honourable, Thomas Grey of Enfield, Esq;
Grace and Peace in this Life, and a Crown of Glory in that to come.
On Christmas Day.
Behold a silly tender Babe,In freezing Winter night,
In homely Manger trembling lyes;
Alas! a piteous sight:
The Inns are full, no man will yield
This little Pilgrim, Bed;
But forc't he is with silly Beasts,
In crib to shrowd his head.
Despise him not for lying there,
First what he is enquire:
An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not his crib, his woodden dish,
Nor beasts that by him feed:
Weigh not his Mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This Stable is a Prince's Court,
The Crib his Chair of State:
The Beasts are parcel of his pomp,
The woodden Dish his Plate.
The persons in that poor attire,
His royal Liveries wear;
This pomp is prized there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise his humble pomp,
Which he from Heaven doth bring.
Halelu-jah.
On the same.
[As I in hoary Winter's night]
As I in hoary Winter's nightStood shivering in the Snow,
Surpriz'd I was with sudden heat,
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful Eye
To view what Fire was near:
A pretty Babe all burning bright
Did in the Ayr appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat,
Such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames,
Which with his tears were bred.
Alas! (quoth he) but newly born,
In fiery heats I fry;
Or feel my fire but I:
My faultless breast the furnace is,
The fuel wounding thornes:
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoak,
The ashes shames and scorns;
The fuel justice layeth on,
And mercy blows the coles,
The metal in this furnace wrought,
Are mens defiled Souls;
For which, as now on fire I am,
To work them to their good:
So will I melt into a Bath,
To wash them in my Blood.
With this he vanisht out of sight,
And swiftly shrunk away;
And straight I called unto mind,
That it was Christmas Day.
Halelu-jah.
| A box of spikenard | |