When God came down on Earth to dwell, Great cold befell: Yet Mary on the road hath seen A fig-tree green. Said Joseph: "O Mary, let the fruit hang; For thirty good mile we have still to gang, Lest we be late!"
When Mary unto a village door At last did win, She thus bespake the cottager: "Sir, take us in! Since for this young Child's tender sake A pitying heart must surely ache, The night's so cold."
"You're welcome all to my ox-stall!" The good man cried. But in the middle of the night He rose and sighed: "Where are ye now, poor hapless ones? That ye're not frozen to the bones, I marvel much."
Then back into his house he runs From forth the byre-- "Rouse up, rouse up, my dearest wife, And light a fire, As fine as ever sent up smoke, Whereat these poor and perishing folk May comfort them."
Mary with joy into the house The Babe has brought, Joseph her just and faithful spouse, His wallet sought. Therefrom he took a kettle small; Some snow the Child therein let fall, And lo 'tis flour!
Thereto the Babe has added ice; 'Tis sugar straight! Now water drops, and, in a trice, 'Tis milk most sweet! The kettle, fast as you could look, They hung upon the kitchen hook A meal to cook.
The godly Joseph carved a spoon From out a brand; To ivory it changed full soon And adamant. When Mary gave the Babe the food, He became Jesus, Son of God. Before their eyes.
She the long sought for and sighed for in vain, the enchantress immortal-- Spring, in our very despair, out of inviolate air Charioting summons the Eastern gate; the obedient portal Opes, and a vision blest yields to the wondering West.
High on her crystal car she trembles in halycon tissues, Gently with golden curb checking her coursers superb-- All her ethereal beauty elate with Love's infinite issues, Whilst this enchantment slips forth from her sibylline lips: "Herb and tree in your kinds, free lives of the mountain and forest, Shoals of the stream and the flood, flights of the welkin and wood, Herd and flock of the field, and ye, whose need is the sorest, Suffering spirits of men, lo! I am with you again. Fear no more for the tyrant hoar as he rushes to battle Armoured in ice, and darts lance after lance at your hearts, Fear not his flaming bolts as they hurtle with horrible rattle Out of the lurid inane fulminant over the plain. Fear not his wizardry white that circles and circles and settles Stealthily hour by hour, feathery flower upon flower, Over the spell-bound sleeper, till last the pitiless petals Darkly in icy death stifle his labouring breath.