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And shall not Heaven's own chorus swell the strain,
Ushering the First-born to His destin'd reign?

Ye stars, which sang creation's birth,
Ye sons of God, seraphic choirs,
Strike, strike again your sacred lyrés,
Now when a brighter day-spring visits earth.

Oh! bending from your seats above,
Teach erring man a song of love !
Tell him of all that ye behold,
Of wond'rous counsels fram'd of old,
Ere earth its ceaseless course began,
Or sun his race gigantic ran;

Counsels of free preventing grace,
"To save, or e'er they fell, a faithless race.
Servants of God! our longing wishes bless!

Unfold the mystery of godliness!
And see, the heavenly hosts descend,
And God's own glory shines around,
While lowly shepherds trembling bend
Their heads in homage to the ground,
Before th’ illustrious messenger;
And hark! a voice, in accents mild,
Pours in their wond’ring ear
Glad tidings of the promised Child,
Tidings, Judea's mourning plains to cheer,
And raise the song of joy in Gentile deserts wild.

Sudden from thousand voices round
Swells the solemn hymning sound,
Glory to God in highest heaven
By seraph, angel, saint, be given!
Peace extend her olive wand
From clime to clime, o'er sea and land !
And good-will from the eternal throne,
To man's favour'd race be shewn !
Nor sunk in gloom the glorious light
Which blazed o’er Bethlem's fields that night,
But rising into higher air
It beam'd in semblance of a star


Wide o'er the plains of Araby;
Proclaiming to the gazing eye
A heav'nly Monarch's reign.
Let by that radiant guide, behold
Of eastern sires and


old A venerable train; They haste in Jordan's palmy vale The wond'rous new-born Child to hail, And myrrh and frankincense and gold, Their country's choicest gifts, to bring In homage to the infant King. Then, bending the adoring knee, Confess the present Deity. And why does Judah linger now His long expected LORD to own? And does not Levi haste to raise The tributary song of praise, Incense and sacrifice prepare? And Benjamin, with eager glow Of patriot zeal, his right arm bare To place his monarch on the throne ? Judah's low thoughts are bent to earth, Regardless of a SAVIOUR's birth; And Levi's priests, unholy men, Make e'en God's house a thievish den; All turn with proud and haughty scorn From one so low, so meanly born. They list not to the shepherds' tale, That heaven's high LORD, descending low, In poverty's dark cloud doth veil The awful glories of his brow. But lower yet that head shall bow, To shame and agony and death; And they whose hearts with rapture burn, As homeward now their footsteps turn, Shall haply beat their breasts and sigh, Lisť’ning the sad mysterious cry, Which speaks his parting breath.

Be thou, that highly favour'd art !
Thou, in whose meek and tender heart
Devotion, love, and fear are blending,
As o'er the lowly manger bed,
Where rests the Infant's holy head,
Awe-struck and silent thou art bending ;
How sharp a sword thy breast shall tear,
When thy own hands, with pious care,

His humble obsequies prepare !
O Thou, who to repair our nature's loss,
Our souls to rescue from the threaten'd doom,
Disdainedst not the holy virgin's womb,
The bitter taunt, the scoff, the scourge, the cross,
The death of sinners, and the guarded tomb;
Though now by saints and martyr'd hosts ador'd,
Thou reign’st supreme in glory, God and LORD,
Yet lay not Thou Thy milder title by,
Clothe it in all Thy heavenly majesty,
And in the name of Jesus let me bow.
By all the wonders which that name hath wrought,
The mercies it reveal'd, the truths it taught,
In pity hear Thy meanest suppliant's vow.
Cleanse Thou his guilt in 'Thy atoning blood,
Feed Thou his soul with heaven-descended food
Before the sacred altar stand, and there
Offer the incense of his humble pray'r :
Teach him like Thee to live, holy and pure,
The Father's will to do, and to endure :
And when his last and dreaded hour draws nigh,
Remember Thou Thy bitter agony ;
Calm all his fears, his dying pangs control,
And in Thy hands receive his parting soul!
Then lead him, cleansed from ev'ry earthly stain,
With saints to sing the glories of Thy reign,
Where, from the white-rob'd multitudes around,
Again shall swell the solemn hymning sound :
“ Glory to God in highest heaven,
By seraph, angel, saint, be given."


Sir Henry Wotton. How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill. Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame or private breath.
Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
Who hath his life from rumours freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat : Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great.. Who God doth late and early pray,

More of His grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, tho' not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.

A SONNET Addressed by King James to his Son Prince Henry. God gives not Kings the stile of Gods in vaine,

For on His throne His scepter do they sway;

And as their subjects ought them to obey, So Kings should feare and serve their God againe.

If, then, ye would enjoy a happie reigne,

Observe the statutes of our Heavenly King;

And from His law make all your laws to spring; Since His Lieutenant here ye should remaine, . Reward the just, be stedfast, true, and plaine;

Represse the proud, maintayning aye the right; Walke always so, as ever in HIS sight, Who guards the godly, plaguing the prophane. And so ye shall in princely vertues shine,

Resembling right your mightie King Divine. My minde to me a kingdome is ;

Such perfect joy therein I finde, As far exceeds all earthly blisse,

That God or Nature hath assignde : Though much I want, that most would have, Yet still


mind forbids to crave. Content I live : this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice; I presse to beare no haughtie sway;

Look what I lack my Mind supplies. Loe! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring. I see how plentie surfets oft,

And hastie clymbers soonest fall : I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all: These get with toile, and keep with feare; Such cares my mind could never beare. No princely pompe, nor welthie store,

No force to winne a victorie, No wylie wit to salve a sore,

No shape to winne a lover's eye; To none of these I yield as thrall : For why, my mind despiseth all.

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