* * * * * THE ANGELS WILLIAM DRUMMOND 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 swarm, And cope of stars re-echoed the same. Or say, if this new Birth of ours Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers, Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear All doubts, and manifest the where. Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek Him in the morning's blushing cheek, Or search the beds of spices through, To find him out? _Star_.--No, this ye need not do; But only come and see Him rest, A princely babe, in's mother's breast. * * * * * HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS FELICIA HEMANS Oh! lovely voices of the sky Which hymned the Saviour's birth, Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"? To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in time gone by, Ye blessed the Syrian swains, Oh! voices of the sky! Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams That hour Heaven's glory shed, Around the palms, and o'er the streams, And on the shepherd's head. Be near, through life and death, As in that holiest night Of hope, and joy, and faith-- Oh! clear and shining light! * * * * * NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP ROBERT SOUTHWELL Behold a simple, 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 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 wooden dish his plate. The persons in that poor attire His royal liveries wear; The Prince himself is come from heaven: This pomp is praised there.