“As Joseph was a-walking
He heard an angel sing—
'This night shall be the birth night
Of Christ, our heavenly King.
His birthbed shall be neither
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of paradise,
But in the oxen's stall.
He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold,
But in the wooden manger
That lieth on the mould.
He neither shall be washen
With white wine nor with red,
But with the fair spring water
That on you shall be shed.
He neither shall be clothed
In purple nor in pall,
But in the fair white linen
That usen babies all.'
As Joseph was a-walking
Thus did the angel sing,
And Mary's Son at midnight
Was born to be our King.
Then be you glad, good people,
At this time of the year;
And light you up your candles,
For His star it shineth clear.”
“There, Edmunde Classicaster,” said Raleigh, “does not that simple strain go nearer to the heart of him who wrote 'The Shepherd's Calendar,' than all artificial and outlandish
'Wote ye why his mother with a veil hath covered his face?'
Why dost not answer, man?”
But Spenser was silent awhile, and then,—
“Because I was thinking rather of the rhymer than the rhyme. Good heaven! how that brave lad shames me, singing here the hymns which his mother taught him, before the very muzzles of Spanish guns; instead of bewailing unmanly, as I have done, the love which he held, I doubt not, as dear as I did even my Rosalind. This is his welcome to the winter's storm; while I, who dream, forsooth, of heavenly inspiration, can but see therein an image of mine own cowardly despair.
'Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath has wasted,
Art made a mirror to behold my plight.'*
Pah! away with frosts, icicles, and tears, and sighs—”
* “The Shepherd's Calendar.”
“And with hexameters and trimeters too, I hope,” interrupted Raleigh: “and all the trickeries of self-pleasing sorrow.”