Happy crib, that wert alone
To my God, bed, cradle, throne!
Whilst thy glorious vileness I
View with divine fancy’s eye,
Sordid filth seems all the cost,
State, and splendour, crowns do boast.
See heaven’s sacred majesty
Humbled beneath poverty;
Swaddled up in homely rags,
On a bed of straw and flags!
He whose hands the heavens display’d,
And the world’s foundations laid,
From the world almost exiled,
Of all ornaments despoil’d.
Perfumes bathe Him not, new-born,
Persian mantles not adorn;
Nor do the rich roofs look bright,
With the jasper’s orient light.
Where, O royal Infant, be
Th’ ensigns of Thy majesty;
Thy Sire’s equalizing state;
And Thy sceptre that rules fate?
Where’s Thy angel-guarded throne,
Whence Thy laws Thou didst make known—
Laws which heaven, earth, hell, obey’d?
These, ah! these aside He laid;
Would the emblem be—of pride
By humility outvied?
SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE