Which wondrously is brought to pass,
And in our sight already done,

By sending, as His promise was

(To comfort us), His only son,

Iven Christ, I mean, that virgin's child
In Bethlehem born:

That lamb of God, that prophet mild,
With crownèd thorn.

Such was His love to save us all,

From dangers of the curse of God,

That we stood in by Adam's fall,

And by our own deserved rod.
That through His blood and holy name,
All that believe,

And fly from sin, and abhor the same,
Shall grace receive.

For this glad news, this feast doth bring,
To God, the Son, and Holy Ghost,

Let man give thanks rejoice and sing,

From world to world, from coast to coast,

For other gifts in many ways,

That God doth send:

Let us in Christ give God the praise,

Till life shall end.

Robert Southwell, the writer of the following poem, is chiefly remembered on account of his unfortunate fate. He was educated and trained for the Catholic priesthood, and when but a mere youth, became a member of the Society of Jesus, at Rome. In 1584, at the age of twenty-four, he was sent as a missionary to England. This was at a time when religious persecution was at its height, and Elizabeth seemed bent on rivalling her sister Mary's cruel decrees. Southwell, however, enjoyed an eight years' security, but at the expiration of that time he was arrested, and underwent a long imprisonment, suffered the torture of the rack ten times, and was at length executed at Tyburn, on February 21, 1595.

NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

*

BEHOLD a silly 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 prizèd there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;

And highly praise His humble pomp,

Which He from Heaven doth bring.

Simple.

5

A HYMN

ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR.

BEN JONSON.

I SING the birth was born to-night,
The author both of life and light;

The angels so did sound it,
And like the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,

Yet searched, and true they found it.

The Son of God, th' Eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soul from danger;

He whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which heaven and earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisdom willed it so,
The Son's obedience knew no No,
Both wills were in one stature;

And as that wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
And took on Him our nature.

What comfort by Him do we win,
Who made Himself the price of sin,
To make us heirs of Glory!

To see this babe, all innocence,

A martyr born in our defence:

Can man forget this story?

1

那

FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

The following Christmas hymn is by Bishop Hall, one of the earliest of our satiric poets, and one of the most celebrated of our old divines. He was contemporary with Shakspeare, Jonson, Spenser, and the other lights of the Elizabethan age. He, however, survived them all, and passing through the troublous times of the Commonwealth, exposed to the persecutions of the Roundhead party, died at Higham, near Norwich, in 1656.

FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

BISHOP HALL.

MMORTAL Babe, who this dear day
Didst change thine Heaven for our clay,
And didst with flesh thy godhead veil,
Eternal Son of God, all hail!

Shine, happy star, ye angels, sing

Glory on high to Heaven's King.

Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch,

See Heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch.

Worship, ye sages of the east,

The King of God in meanness dressed.

O blessed maid, smile and adore

The God thy womb and arms have bore.

Star, angels, shepherds, and wild sages,
Thou virgin glory of all ages,
Restored frame of Heaven and Earth,

Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth!

William Drummond, of Hawthornden, the author of the two following sonnets, will be remembered as the friend of Ben Jonson, who undertook a journey to Scotland on foot, for the purpose of seeing and conversing with one who was only known to him through the medium of correspondence. This meeting, however, did not tend to enhance their mutual regard; and Drummond left behind him at his death a manuscript account of the interview, which indicated in plain terms his disapprobation of Jonson's want of refinement, both as regards his manners and habits.