Two
Precious Poems
One. This Little Child - Robert
Southwell
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 made 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;
The 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 dight;
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 the heavenly boy.
Robert Southwell (c. 1561 – 21 February 1595),
also Saint Robert Southwell, was an English Roman Catholic priest of the Jesuit
Order. He was also a poet and clandestine missionary in post-Reformation
England.
After being arrested and tortured by Sir
Richard Topcliffe, Southwell was tried and convicted of high treason for his
links to the Holy See. On 21 February 1595, Southwell was hanged, drawn and
quartered at Tyburn. In 1970, he was canonised by Pope Paul VI as one of the
Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. || From Wikipedia: http://j.mp/0SouthwellWiki or http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Southwell_(Jesuit)
More Southwell poems at: http://j.mp/2SouthwellPoems or http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/southw01.html
Two: An explanation of the disappearance
of a ghost:
It faded on the crowing of the cock. 180
Some say that ever, 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long;
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome, then no planets
strike, 185
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
-
Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 1, Lines
180-187
http://j.mp/0Hamlet1S1
or http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/plays/play_view.php?WorkID=hamlet&Act=1&Scene=1&Scope=scene
I2C 141226Xa Day Two Xmas 14 | I2C | 141226
1054 | Day Two Xmas 14
