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 odours 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 angels’ 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 vapours up direct: No storm shall cross, nor glittering lights deface Perpetual sighs which seek a happy place. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT 32. THE ANGELS Run, shepherds, run, where Bethlehem blest appears, We bring the best of news; be not dismayed; A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven’s rolling height this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid A weakling did Him bear, who all upbears; There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres: Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize His birth. This is that night—no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is: In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth! Thus singing, through the air the angels swam, And cope of stars re-echoèd the same. WILLIAM DRUMMOND 33. THE SHEPHERDS O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night! Night to blest days in which a sun doth rise, Of which that golden eye which clears the skies Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light! And blessèd ye, in silly pastor’s sight, Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies That heaven-sent Youngling, holy-maid-born Wight, Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies! Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread, Though withered—blessèd grass that hath the grace To deck and be a carpet to that place! Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed, Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed on knees, And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees. WILLIAM DRUMMOND 34. A ROCKING HYMN Sweet baby, sleep! What ails my dear? What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep! Thou blessèd soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy Father dear; His holy spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep!