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Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box,*
And to the dealing of the ox

Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheep cotes have,
And mate with every body;

The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play the noddy.
Some youths will now a mumming go,
Some others play at Rowland-ho,
And twenty other gambols mo,

Because they will be merry,

Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays,

To make our mirth the fuller.
And, whilst thus inspired we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring,
Woods and hills, and every thing,

Bear witness we are merry.

George Wither will be remembered as the author of many tender and graceful poems, some few of which invariably find a place in every collection of early poetry. He was one of those uncompromising spirits, formed by and for the age in which they live. He supported the cause of the Parliament with his satiric pen and good broadsword. He sold his estate to raise a regiment, and was made a major-general by Cromwell in return. The Restoration stripped him of everything he possessed; still this was only a part of his misfortunes, for he was shortly afterwards imprisoned in the Tower on a charge of sedition, and, to increase his punishment, pens, ink, and paper were denied him. When he obtained his liberty is not known; he lived, however, to the good old age of seventy-nine, closing his troublous worldly career on May 2, 1667.

This alludes to the Christmas money-box, made of earthenware, which required to be broken to obtain possession of the money it held.




As on the night before this happy morn,
A blessed angel unto shepherds told,

Where (in a stable) He was poorly born,

Whom nor the earth, nor heaven of heavens can hold :
Through Bethlem rung

This news at their return;

Yea, angels sung

That God with us was born;

And they made mirth because we should not mourn.

Their angel-carol sing we then,

To God on high all glory be,

For peace on earth bestoweth He,
And showeth favour unto men.

This favour Christ vouchsafèd for our sake;

To buy us thrones, He in a manger lay;

Our weakness took, that we His strength might take;
And was disrobed, that He might us array;

Our flesh He wore,

Our sin to wear away;

Our curse He bore,

That we escape it may;

And wept for us, that we might sing for aye.

With angels therefore sing again,
To God on high all glory be;
For peace on earth bestoweth He,
And showeth favour unto men.




It was the winter wild,

While the heaven-born child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature, in awe to Him,

Had doffed her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathize :

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air,

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;

And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ;
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes,

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But He, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meck-eyed Peace;

She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere,

His ready harbinger,

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;

And, waving wide her myrtle wand,

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

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The idle spear and shield were high up hung;

The hooked chariot stood

Unstained with hostile blood;

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
And kings sat still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night,

Wherein the Prince of Light

His reign of peace upon the earth began:
The winds, with wonder whist,

Smoothly the waters kissed,

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,

Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,
Bending one way their precious influence;

And will not take their flight,

For all the morning light,

Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;

But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady gloom

Had given day her room,

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

And hid his head for shame,

As his inferior flame

The new enlightened world no more should need:

He saw a greater Sun appcar

Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.


The shepherds on the lawn,

Or ere the point of dawn,

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row:

Full little thought they then,

That the mighty Pan

Was kindly come to live with them below;
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet

Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook; Divinely-warbled voice

Answering the stringed noise,

As all their souls in blissful rapture took:

The air, such pleasure loth to lose,

With thousand echoes still prolongs cach heavenly close.

Nature, that heard such sound,

Beneath the hollow round

Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling,

Now was almost won

To think her part was done,

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ;

She knew such harmony alone

Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight

A globe of circular light,

That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed;

The helmed cherubim,

And sworded seraphim,

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,

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