His audience was thrilled.  Never had the monks heard Caedmon, or any other minstrel, sing with such fire; the intervening centuries fled before his song.  They, too, went to the lowly manger, and saw the Divine Infant hushed on the happy breast of his young Mother and felt Mary’s awe when the shepherds told her what they that night had seen and heard.  While Caedmon sang they saw the caravan winding over an unmarked way and the wise men of the Orient following ever the strange star, till, after weeks of travel, it stood over the place where the young Child lay.  They saw, too, the aged, bearded Melchior, Gaspar, young and fresh, and Balthazar the Moor, descend from their kneeling camels with their kingly offerings of gold, frankincense and myrrh and prostrate themselves in reverence before the Holy Babe.

“’Twas ages, ages long ago,” and Caedmon and his hymns are nigh forgotten, but with each returning Christmas-tide may be heard again, as Caedmon heard of yore, the angels’ song of joy:  “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

GOOD KING WENCESLAS

JOHN MASON NEALE

Good King Wenceslas looked out
  On the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
  Deep, and crisp, and even.

Brightly shone the moon that night
  Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
  Gath’ring winter fuel.

“Hither, page, and stand by me,
  If thou know’st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he? 
  Where and what his dwelling?”

“Sire, he lives a good league hence,
  Underneath the mountain;
Right against the forest fence,
  By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”

“Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,
  Bring me pine-logs hither;
Thou and I will see him dine,
  When we bear them thither.”

Page and monarch, forth they went,
  Forth they went together;
Through the rude wind’s wild lament
  And the bitter weather.

“Sire, the night is darker now,
  And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how,
  I can go no longer.”

“Mark my footsteps, good my page;
  Tread thou in them boldly: 
Thou shalt find the winter rage
  Freeze thy blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod,
  Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
  Which the saint had printed.

Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
  Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
  Shall yourselves find blessing.

THE CHRISTMAS AT GRECCIO:  A STORY OF ST. FRANCIS

SOPHIE JEWETT

“The beautiful Mother is bending
  Low where her Baby lies
Helpless and frail, for her tending;
  But she knows the glorious eyes.

“The Mother smiles and rejoices
  While the Baby laughs in the hay;
She listens to heavenly voices: 
  ‘The child shall be King, one day.’