RICHARD CRASHAW

Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone ;

The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love's architecture is His own.

The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,

Made His own bed ere He was born.

I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head,

OfPring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant's bed.

Forbear, said I, be not too bold ;

Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.

I saw th' obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,

For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below.

Well done, said I ; but are you sure

Your down, so warm, will pass for pure ?

No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head ;

See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed!

Sweet choice, said we ; no way but so,

Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow !

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye ^

She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie.

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