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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.

Yet Saba's lords before this babe unfold

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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.

IV.-e

6*

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;

O Thou born King of loves!

1 King.

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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,

2 King.

3 King.

Lost in a bright

Meridian night;

A darkness made of too much day;
Beckoned from far

By Thy fair star,

Lo, at last have found our way.

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