Upon the Image of Death

Before my face the picture hangs

That daily should put me in mind

Of those cold names and bitter pangs

That shortly I am like to find;

But yet, alas, full little I

Do think hereon that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;

I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose had sometimes been;

I see the bones across that lie,

Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must;

I see the sentence eke that saith

Remember, man, that thou art dust!

But yet , alas, but seldom I

Do think indeed that I must die.

Continually at my bed's head

A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell

That I ere morning may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well;

But yet, alas, for all this, I

Have little mind that I must die.

The gown which I do use to wear,

The knife wherewith I cut my meat,

And eke that old and ancient chair

Which is my only usual seat, --

All those do tell me I must die,

And yet my life amend not I.

Not Solomon for all his wit,

Nor Samson, though he were so strong,

No king nor person ever yet

Could 'scape but death laid him along;

Wherefore I know that I must die,

And yet my life amend not I.

Though all the East did quake to hear

Of Alexander's dreadful name,

And all the West did likewise fear

To hear of Julius Cæsar's fame,

Yet both by death in dust now lie;

Who then can 'scape but he must die?

If none can 'scape death's dreadful dart,

If rich and poor his beck obey,

If strong, if wise, if all do smart,

Then I to 'scape shall have no way.

Oh, grant me grace, O God, that I

My life may mend, sith I must die.

Robert Southwell

New Prince, New Pomp

Behold, a seely 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 seely beasts

In crib to shroud his head.

Despise him not for lying there,

First, what he is enquire,

An orient pearl is often found

In depth of dirty mire.

Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish,

Nor beasts that by him feed;

Weigh not his mother's poor attire

Nor Joseph's simple weed.

This stable is a prince's court,

This 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 prizëd there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight,

Do homage to thy king;

And highly prize his humble pomp

Which he from heaven doth bring.

Robert Southwell

The Burning Babe

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,

Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,

A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear;

Who, scorchëd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed

As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.

Alas, quoth he, but newly born in fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!

My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;

The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,

The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilëd souls,

For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.

With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I callëd into mind that it was Christmas day.

Robert Southwell

New Heaven, New War

Come to your heaven, you heavenly choirs,

Earth hath the heaven of your desires;

Remove your dwelling to your God,

A stall is now his best abode;

Sith men their homage do deny,

Come, Angels, all their fault supply.

His chilling cold doth heat require,

Come, Seraphins, in lieu of fire;

This little Ark no cover hath,

Let Cherubs' wings his body swath;

Come, Raphael, this Babe must eat,

Provide our little Tobie meat.

Let Gabriel be now his groom,

That first took up his earthly room;

Let Michael stand in his defence,

Whom love hath link'd to feeble sense;

Let Graces rock when he doth cry,

Let Angels sing his lullaby.

The same you saw in heavenly seat,

Is he that now sucks Mary's teat;

Agonize your King a mortal wight,

His borrowed weed lets not your sight;

Come, kiss the manger where he lies,

That is your bliss above the skies.

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