AN ODE ON THE BIRTH OF OUR SAVIOUR.
In numbers, and but these few,
I sing Thy birth, O Jesu!
Thou pretty baby, born here
With sup'rabundant scorn here:
Who, for Thy princely port here,
Hadst for Thy place
Of birth a base
Out-stable for Thy court here.
Instead of neat enclosures
Of interwoven osiers,
Instead of fragrant posies
Of daffodils and roses,
Thy cradle, kingly stranger,
As gospel tells,
Was nothing else
But here a homely manger.
But we with silks not crewels,
With sundry precious jewels,
And lily work will dress Thee;
And, as we dispossess Thee
Of clouts, we'll make a chamber,
Sweet babe, for Thee
Of ivory
And plaster'd round with amber.
The Jews they did disdain Thee,
But we will entertain Thee
With glories to await here
Upon Thy princely state here;
And, more for love than pity,
From year to year
We'll make Thee here
A free-born of our city.
Robert Herrick.
WHO CAN FORGET?
Who can forget—never to be forgot—
The time, that all the world in slumber lies,
When, like the stars, the singing angels shot
To earth, and heaven awaked all his eyes
To see another sun at midnight rise
On earth? Was never sight of pareil fame
For God before, man like himself did frame,
But God himself now like a mortal man became.