RUN Shepherds, run where Bethlem blest appears,
We bring the best of news, be not dismayed,

A Saviour there is born, more old than years,

Amidst Heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed;
In a poor cottage inned, a Virgin Maid,

There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid,

A weakling did Him bear, who all upbears,
To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres:

Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize His birth,

This is that night, no-day grown great with bliss,

In which the power of Satan broken is;

In Heaven be glory, peace unto the Earth.

Thus singing through the air the Angels swam,

And cope of stars re-echoèd the same.

O THAN the fairest day, thrice fairer night!

Night to best days in which a sun doth rise,

Of which that golden eye, which clears the skies,

Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow light:

And blessed ye, in silly pastor's sight,

Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies

That Heaven-sent Youngling, holy Maid-born Wight, Midst, end, beginning of our prophesies:

Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread,

Though withered; blessed grass, that hath the grace
To deck, and be a carpet to that place.

Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed,
Before the Babe, the Shepherds bowed on knees,

And springs ran nectar, honey dropt from trees.

GEORGE HERBERT.

ALL after pleasures as I rid one day,

My horse and I, both tired, body and mind, With full cry of affections, quite astray,

I took up in the next inn I could find; There when I came, whom found I but my dear, My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief Of pleasures brought me to him, ready there

To be all passengers' most sweet relief? O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light, Wrapt in night's mantle, stole into a manger; my dark soul and brutish is thy right,

Since

To man of all beasts be not thou a stranger: Furnish and deck my soul, that thou mayst have A better lodging, than a rack or grave.

The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for Thee?

My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.

The pasture is thy word; the streams, thy grace
Enriching all the place.

Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Outsing the daylight hours.

Then we will chide the sun for letting night

Take up his place and right:

We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should Himself the candle hold.

I will go searching, till I find a sun

Shall stay till we have done;

A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
As frost-night suns look sadly.

THE SHEPHERD'S SONG.

Then we will sing, and shine all our own day,

And one another pay:

His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till e'en his beams sing, and my music shine.

THE SHEPHERD'S SONG.

EDMUND BOLTON.

SWEET Music, sweeter far

Than any song is sweet

Sweet Music heavenly rare,

Mine ears,

O peers, doth greet.

You gentle flocks-whose fleeces, pearled with dew,

Resemble Heaven, whom golden drops make bright—

Listen, O listen, now; O not to you

Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night;

But voices most divine

Make blissful harmony

Voices that seem to shine;

For what else clears the sky?

Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see:
The tune's divine, and so the singers be.

Lo, how the firmament

Within an azure fold

The flock of stars hath pent,

That we might them behold.

Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light,
Nor can their crystals such reflection give.
What then doth make the element so bright?

The heavens are come down upon earth to live.

These choristers do sing.

Angels they are, as also Shepherds, He

Whom in our fear we do admire to see.

Let not amazement blind

Your souls, said he, annoy :

Το

you

and all mankind

My message bringeth joy.

For lo, the world's great Shepherd now is born,
A blessed Babe, an Infant full of power:
After long night, up-risen is the morn,
Renowning Bethlem in the Saviour.

Sprung is the perfect day,

By prophets seen afar,
Sprung is the mirthful May,

Which Winter cannot mar.

In David's city doth this Sun appear,

Clouded in flesh, yet Shepherds sit we here.

"Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather."

SHAKSPEARE.

The following extracts comprise descriptions of Winter and the Christmas season, by the three greatest poets of the Elizabethan era, viz., Shakspeare, Spenser, and Jonson. These are preceded by some nervous lines penned by old Sackville, whose writings gave the tone to the revival of poetry at the commencement of Elizabeth's reign. Like the mere fragment quoted from Chaucer, they are the slightest possible