Eternall worlds upon it's wings. win Richard Crashaw. Chorus. Hymn of the Nativity. Sung as by the Shepheards. Ome we shepheards whose blest Sight Com Hath mett love's Noon in Nature's night; And wake the SUN that lyes too long. To all our world of well-stoln joy While we found out Heavn's fairer eye Tell him He rises now too late To show us ought worth looking at. Tityrus. Gloomy night embrac't the Place Where The Noble Infant lay. The BABE look't up & shew'd his Face; In spite of Darknes, it was DAY. It was THY day, SWEET! & did rise Not from the EAST, but from thine EYES. Chorus. It was THY day, Sweet, &c. Thyrs. WINTER chidde aloud; & sent By those sweet eyes persuasive powrs Chorus. By those sweet eyes, &c. Both. We saw thee in thy baulmy Nest, We saw thine eyes break from their EASTE 20 30 Tity. Poor WORLD (said I) what wilt thou doe To entertain this starry STRANGER ? Is this the best thou canst bestow? A cold, and not too cleanly, manger ? Contend ye powres of heav'n & earth To fitt à bed for this huge birthe. Cho. Contend ye powers, &c. Thyr. Proud world, said I; cease your contest, And let the MIGHTY BABE alone. The Phenix builds the Phænix' nest. Lov's architecture is his own. The BABE whose birth embraves this morn, Made his own bed e're he was born. 40 50 Tit. No no, your KING's not yet to seeke See see, how soon his new-bloom'd CHEEK Sweet choise, said we! no way but so Wellcome, all WONDERS in one sight! Sommer in Winter. Day in Night. Great little one! whose all-embracing birth WELLCOME. Though nor to gold nor silk. With many a rarely-temper'd kisse That breathes at once both MAID & MOTHER, 70 80 90 WELLCOME, though not to those gay flyes But to poor Shepherds, home-spun things: Yet when young April's husband showrs We'l bring the First-born of her flowrs 100 To thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepheards, more then they the sheep. TO THEE, meek Majesty! soft KING Of simple GRACES & Sweet Loves. Each his pair of sylver Doves; Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes, Richard Crashaw. Hymn in Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Ꮤ Adoro te. Ith all the powres my poor Heart hath Thus lowe (my hidden life!) I bow to thee Whom too much love hath bow'd more low for me. Down down, proud sense! Discourses dy! Keep close, my soul's inquiring ey! Nor touch nor tast must look for more But each sitt still in his own Dore. |