See how from far upon the Eastern road

The star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet!

Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode,

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire,

From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

The Hymn I

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.

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