THE BURNING BABE.

SI 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 exceeding heat such floods of

tears did shed,

As though His floods should quench His flames with what His tears were fed;

Alas! quoth He, but newly born in fiery heats of 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 vanish'd out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas-day.

NEW HEAVEN, NEW WAR.

OME to your heaven, you heavenly
quires!

Earth hath the heaven of your desires;
Remove your dwelling to your God,
A stall is now His best abode ;
Sith men their homage doth deny,
Come, angels, all their faults supply.

His chilling cold doth heat require,
Come, seraphim, 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 defence,

Whom love hath link'd to feeble sense;
Let graces rock when He doth cry,
And angels sing this lullaby.

The same you saw in heavenly seat,
Is He that now sucks Mary's teat;
Agnize your King a mortal wight,
His borrow'd 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 unarmed 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 pitched in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall,

His 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.