ll,
Nor in the place of paradise,
But in the oxen's stall.

He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold,
But in the wooden manger
That lieth on the mould.

He neither shall be washen
With white wine nor with red,
But with the fair spring water
That on you shall be shed.

He neither shall be clothed
In purple nor in pall,
But in the fair white linen
That usen babies all.'

As Joseph was a-walking
Thus did the angel sing,
And Mary's Son at midnight
Was born to be our King.

Then be you glad, good people,
At this time of the year;
And light you up your candles,
For His star it shineth clear."

"There, Edmunde Classicaster," said Raleigh, "does not that simple
strain go nearer to the heart of him who wrote 'The Shepherd's
Calendar,' than all artificial and outlandish

'Wote ye why his mother with a veil hath covered his face?'

Why dost not answer, man?"

But Spenser was silent awhile, and then,--

"Because I was thinking rather of the rhymer than the rhyme. Good
heaven! how that brave lad shames me, singing here the hymns which his
mother taught him, before the very muzzles of Spanish guns; instead of
bewailing unmanly, as I have done, the love which he held, I doubt not,
as dear as I did even my Rosalind. This is his welcome to the winter's
storm; while I, who dream, forsooth, of heavenly inspiration, can but
see therein an image of mine own cowardly despair.

'Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath has wasted,
Art made a mirror to behold my plight.'*

Pah! away with frosts, icicles, and tears, and sighs--"

* "The Shepherd's Calendar."

"And with hexameters and trimeters too, I hope," interrupted Raleigh:
"and all the trickeries of self-pleasing sorrow."

"--I will set my heart to higher work than barking at the hand which
chastens me."

"Wilt put the lad into the 'Faerie Queene,' then, by my side? He
deserves as good a place there, believe me, as ever a Guyon, or even as
Lord Grey your Arthegall. Let us hail him. Hallo! young chanticleer of
Devon! Art not afraid of a chance shot, that thou crowest so lustily
upon thine own mixen?"

"Cocks crow all night long at Christmas, Captain Raleigh, and so do I,"
said Amyas's cheerful voice; "but who's there with you?"

"A penitent pupil of yours--Mr. Secretary Spenser."

"Pupil of mine?" said Amyas. "I wish he'd