John Byrom Poems

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand;
'Hark ye,' said he, ''tis an odd story this
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Christians awake, salute the happy morn,
Whereon the saviour of the world was born;
Rise, to adore the mystery of love,
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My spirit longs for thee
Within my troubled breast
Though I unworthy be
Of so divine a guest:
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A Local union, on the other hand,
Though crowded numbers should together stand,
Joining in one same Form of pray'r and praise,
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What is more tender than a mother's love
To the sweet infant fondling in her arms?
What need of arguments her heart to move
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Indeed, Sir Peter, I could wish, I own,
That parsons would let politics alone;
Plead, if they will, the customary plea,
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Christians, awake, salute the happy morn
Whereon the Savior of the world was born.1
Rise to adore the mystery of love
Which hosts of angels chanted from above
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A Christian, in so catholic a sense,
Can give to none, but partial minds offence;
Forc'd to live under some divided part,
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If once establish'd the essential part,
The inward Church, the Temple of the Heart,
Or house of God, the substance, and the sum
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’TIS Man’s own Nature, which in its own Life,
Or Centre, stands in Enmity and Strife,
And anxious, selfish, doing what it lists,
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