So he built him a bridge with the beams of the sun, And over the sea went he, And after followed the three jolly jerdins, And drowned they were all three. Then Mary mild called home her child, And laid him across her knee, And with a handful of green withy twigs She gave him slashes three. 'O the withy, O the withy, O bitter withy That causes me to smart! O the withy shall be the very first tree That perishes at the heart.'" From these popular ballads, mediaeval memories in the rustic mind, we must return to the devotional verse of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Two of the greatest poets of the Nativity, the Roman priests Southwell and Crashaw, are deeply affected by the wave of mysticism which passed over Europe in their time. Familiar as is Southwell's "The Burning Babe," few will be sorry to find it here:-- "As I in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat, Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty Babe all burning bright Did in the air appear; Who, scorched with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames Which with His tears were fed. |80| 'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly born, In fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire, but I! My faultless breast the furnace is, The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, The ashes, shame and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defiled souls, For which, as now on fire I am, To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood.' With this he vanished out of sight, And swiftly shrunk away: And straight I called unto mind That it was Christmas Day."{38} As for Crashaw, "That the great angel-blinding light should shrink His blaze to shine in a poor shepherd's eye, That the unmeasured God so low should sink As Pris'ner in a few poor rags to lie, That from His mother's breast He milk should drink Who feeds with nectar heaven's fair family, That a vile manger His low bed should prove Who in a throne of stars thunders above: That He, whom the sun serves, should faintly peep Through clouds of infant flesh; that He the old Eternal Word should be a Child and weep, That He who made the fire should fear the cold: That heaven's high majesty His court should keep In a clay cottage, by each blast controll'd: That glory's self should serve our griefs and fears, And free Eternity submit to years--"{39}