New Prince New Pomp





ROBERT SOUTHWELL



Behold a simple, 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 praised there.



With joy approach, O Christian wight!

Do homage to thy King;

And highly praise this humble pomp,

Which he from heaven doth bring.





Neighbors Of The Christ Night O Little Town Of Bethlehem facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

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