We may call the little lyric
A SONG OF LABOUR.
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden
slumbers?
Oh, sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
Oh, punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
Oh, sweet content!
Chorus.—Work apace, apace, apace,
apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Canst drink the waters of the crisped
spring?
Oh, sweet content!
Swimm’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st
in thine own tears?
Oh, punishment!
Then he that patiently want’s burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
Oh, sweet content!
Chorus.—Work apace, apace, apace,
apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
It is a song of the poor in spirit, whose is the kingdom of heaven. But if my co-listeners prefer, we will call it the voice, not of one who sings in the choir, but of one who “tunes his instrument at the door.”
CHAPTER X.
SIR JOHN BEAUMONT AND DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.
Sir John Beaumont, born in 1582, elder brother to the dramatist who wrote along with Fletcher, has left amongst his poems a few fine religious ones. From them I choose the following:
OF THE EPIPHANY.
Fair eastern star, that art ordained to
run
Before the sages, to the rising sun,
Here cease thy course, and wonder that
the cloud
Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud:
Ye, heavenly bodies, glory to be bright,
And are esteemed as ye are rich in light;
But here on earth is taught a different
way,
Since under this low roof the highest
lay.
Jerusalem erects her stately towers,
Displays her windows, and adorns her bowers;
Yet there thou must not cast a trembling
spark:
Let Herod’s palace still continue
dark;
Each school and synagogue thy force repels,
There Pride, enthroned in misty errors,
dwells;
The temple, where the priests maintain
their choir,
Shall taste no beam of thy celestial fire,
While this weak cottage all thy splendour
takes:
A joyful gate of every chink it makes.
Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair,
No king exalted in a stately chair,
Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled,
But straw and hay enwrap a speechless
child;
Yet Sabae’s lords before this babe
unfold
Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh,
and gold.
The crib becomes an altar: therefore
dies
No ox nor sheep; for in their fodder lies
The Prince of Peace, who, thankful for
his bed,
Destroys those rites in which their blood
was shed:
The quintessence of earth he takes and[87]
fees,
And precious gums distilled from weeping
trees;
Rich metals and sweet odours now declare
The glorious blessings which his laws
prepare,