On Christmas-day

Rise, happy Mortals, from your sleep,
Bright Phospher now begins to peep,
In such apparel as ne'er dress'd
The proudest day-break of the East:
Death's Sable Curtain 'gins disperse,
And now the blessed Morn appears,
Which has long'd and pray'd for him
So many Centuries of years,
To defray th'arrears of sin.
Now through the joyfull Universe
Beams of Mercy and of Love
Shoot forth comfort from above,
And Choires of Angels do proclaim
The Holy Iesus blessed Name.

Rise Sheepherds, leave your Flocks, and run,
The Soul's great Sheepherd now is come;
Oh! wing your tardy feet, and fly
To greet this dawning Majesty:
Heaven's Messenger, in tidings bless'd,
Invites you to the Sacred place,
Where the blessed Babe of Joy,
Wrapp'd in his Holy Father's Grace,
Come's the Serpent to destroy,
That lurks in ev'ry humane Breast.
To Iudah's Beth'lem turn your feet,
There you shall Salvation meet;
There, in a homely Manger hurl'd,
Lies the Messias of the World.

Riding upon the Morning's wings,
The joyfull Air Salvation sings,
Peace upon Earth, tow'rds men good will,
Ecchoes from ev'ry Vale and Hill;
For why the Prince of Peace is come,
The glorious Infant, who this Morn
(By a strange mysterious Birth,)
Is of his Virgin Mother born,
To redeem the Seed of Earth
From foul rebellious heavy doom.
Travel Magi of the East,
To adore this sacred Guest;
And offer up (with reverence,)
Your Gold, your Myrrhe, and Frankincense.

At th'teeming of this Blessed Womb
All Nature is one Joy become;
The Fire, the Earth, the Sea, and Air,
The great Salvation do declare:
The Mountains skip with Joy's excess,
The Ocean's briny billows swell
O'er the surface of their Lands,
And at this Sacred Miracle
Flouds do clap their liquid hands,
Joy's Inundation to express;
Babes spring in the narrow rooms
Of their tender Mothers Wombs,
And all for Triumph of the Morn
Wherein the Child of bliss was born.

Let each religious Soul then rise
To offer up a Sacrifice,
And on the wings of Pray'r and Praise
His gratefull heart to Heaven raise;
For this, that in a Stable lies,
This poor neglected Babe is he,
Hell and Death that must controll,
And speak the blessed Word, be free
To ev'ry true believing Soul:
Death has no sting, nor Hell no prize
Through his Merits great, whilst we
Travel to Eternity,
And with the Blessed Angels sing
Hosannah's to the Heav'nly King.