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.
The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear;
The Prince himself is come from heaven,
This pomp is praiséd 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.
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.