THE PARISH TRILOGY - Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, The Seaboard Parish & The Vicar's Daughter - George MacDonald

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Yet being malist both by great and small.

       With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind,

       Thou must Him love, and His beheasts embrace;

       All other loves, with which the world doth blind

       Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base,

       Thou must renounce and utterly displace,

       And give thy selfe unto Him full and free,

       That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee.

       Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee

       With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil,

       And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see

       Th' idee of His pure glorie present still

       Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill

       With sweet enragement of celestial love,

       Kindled through sight of those faire things above.

       Spencer

       NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.

       Behold a silly tender Babe,

       In freezing winter night,

       In homely manger trembling lies;

       Alas! a piteous sight.

       The inns are full, no man will yield

       This little Pilgrim bed;

       But forced He is with silly beasts

       In crib to shroud His head.

       Despise Him not for lying there,

       First what He is inquire;

       An orient pearl is often found

       In depth of dirty mire.

       Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,

       Nor beast that by Him feed;

       Weigh not his mother's poor attire,

       Nor Joseph's simple weed.

       This stable is a Prince's court,

       The crib His chair of state;

       The beasts are parcel of His pomp,

       The wooden dish His plate.

       The persons in that poor attire

       His royal liveries wear;

       The Prince himself is come from heaven—

       This pomp is praised there.

       With joy approach, O Christian wight!

       Do homage to thy King;

       And highly praise this humble pomp

       Which He from heaven doth bring.

       SOUTHWELL.

       A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS.

       1. Where is this blessed Babe

       That hath made

       All the world so full of joy

       And expectation;

       That glorious Boy

       That crowns each nation

       With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?

       2. Where should He be but in the throng,

       And among

       His angel-ministers, that sing

       And take wing

       Just as may echo to His voice,

       And rejoice,

       When wing and tongue and all

       May so procure their happiness?

       3. But He hath other waiters now.

       A poor cow,

       An ox and mule stand and behold,

       And wonder

       That a stable should enfold

       Him that can thunder.

       Chorus. O what a gracious God have we!

       How good! How great! Even as our misery.

       Jeremy Taylor.

       A SONG OF PRAISE FOR THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.

       Away, dark thoughts; awake, my joy;

       Awake, my glory; sing;

       Sing songs to celebrate the birth

       Of Jacob's God and King.

       O happy night, that brought forth light,

       Which makes the blind to see!

       The day spring from on high came down

       To cheer and visit thee.

       The wakeful shepherds, near their flocks,

       Were watchful for the morn;

       But better news from heaven was brought,

       Your Saviour Christ is born.

       In Bethlem-town the infant lies,

       Within a place obscure,

       O little Bethlem, poor in walls,

       But rich in furniture!

       Since heaven is now come down to earth,

       Hither the angels fly!

       Hark, how the heavenly choir doth sing

       Glory to God on High!

       The news is spread, the church is glad,

       SIMEON, o'ercome with joy,

       Sings with the infant in his arms,

       NOW LET THY SERVANT DIE.

       Wise men from far beheld the star,

       Which was their faithful guide,

       Until it pointed forth the Babe,

       And Him they glorified.

       Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing—

       Shall we our Christ deny?

       He's born for us, and we for Him:

       GLORY TO GOD ON HIGH.

       JOHN MASON.

      CHAPTER XI.

       SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON.

       Table of Contents

      I never asked questions about the private affairs of any of my parishioners, except of themselves individually upon occasion of their asking me for advice, and some consequent necessity for knowing more than they told me. Hence, I believe, they became the more willing that I should know. But I heard a good many things from others, notwithstanding, for I could not be constantly closing the lips of the communicative as I had done those of Jane Rogers. And amongst other things, I learned that Miss Oldcastle went most Sundays to the neighbouring town of Addicehead to church. Now I had often heard of the ability of the rector, and although I had never met him, was prepared to find him a cultivated, if not an original man. Still, if I must be honest, which I hope I must, I confess that I heard the news with a pang, in analysing which I discovered the chief component to be jealousy. It was no use asking myself why I should be jealous: there the ugly thing was. So I went and told God I was ashamed, and begged Him to deliver me from the evil, because His was the kingdom and the power and the glory. And He took my part against myself, for He waits to be gracious. Perhaps the reader may, however, suspect a deeper cause for this feeling (to which I would rather not give the true name again) than a merely professional one.

      But there was one stray sheep of my flock that appeared in church for the first time on

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