Friday, 19 December 2014

By special request...

New Heaven, New War

Come to your heaven, you heavenly choirs,
Earth hath the heaven of your desires.
Remove your dwelling to your God;
A stall is now his best abode.
Sith men their homage do deny,
Come, angels, all their fault supply.

His chilling cold doth heat require;
Come, seraphins, in lieu of fire.
This little ark no cover hath;
Let cherubs’ wings his body swathe.
Come, Raphael, this babe must eat;
Provide our little Toby meat.

Let Gabriel be now his groom,
That first took up his earthly room.
Let Michael stand in his defense,
Whom love hath linked to feeble sense.
Let graces rock when he doth cry,
And angels sing his lullaby.

The same you saw in heavenly seat
Is he that now sucks Mary’s teat;
Agnize your king a mortal wight,
His borrowed weed lets not your sight.
Come, kiss the manger where he lies,
That is your bliss above the skies.

This little babe, so few days old,
Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;
All hell doth at his presence quake.
Though he himself for cold do shake,
For in this weak unarmèd wise
The gates of hell he will surprise.

With tears he fights and wins the field;
His naked breast stands for a shield;
His battering shot are babish cries,
His arrows looks of weeping eyes,
His martial ensigns cold and need,
And feeble flesh his warrior’s steed.

His camp is pitchèd in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall,
The crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes,
Of shepherds he his muster makes;
And thus, as sure his foe to wound,
The angels’ trumps alarum sound.

My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;
Stick to the tents that he hath pight;
Within his crib is surest ward,
This little babe will be thy guard.
If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,
Then flit not from this heavenly boy.

St Robert Southwell


New Prince, New Pomp

Behold, a seely 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 seely beasts 
In crib to shroud his head.

Despise him not for lying there, 
First, what he is enquire, 
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, 
This 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 prized there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight, 
Do homage to thy king; 
And highly prize his humble pomp 
Which he from heaven doth bring. 

St Robert Southwell

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