This day to man came perfect unity,
This day man's grief began for to surcease,
This day did man receive a remedy
For each offence and every deadly sin,
With guilty heart that erst he wandered in.

In Christe's flock let love be surely placed,
From Christe's flock let concord hate expel,
Of Christe's flock let love be so embraced
As we in Christ and Christ in us may dwell;
Christ is the author of all unity,
From whence proceedeth all felicity.

O sing unto this glittering, glorious king,
O praise His name let every living thing;
Let heart and voice, like bells of silver, ring
The comfort that this day doth bring;
Let lute, let shawm, with sound of sweet delight,
The joy of Christe's birth this day recite.

_Francis Kinwelmersh, A.D. 1576._

SUNG TO THE KING IN THE PRESENCE AT WHITEHALL.

_Chor._--What sweeter music can we bring,
Than a carol for to sing
The birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the voice! awake the string!
Heart, ear, and eye, and everything
Awake! the while the active finger
Runs divisions with the singer.

_From the flourish they come to the song._

Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honor to this day,
That sees December turn'd to May.

If we may ask the reason, say
The why and wherefore all things here
Seem like the spring-time of the year?
Why does the chilling winter's morn
Smile like a field beset with corn?
Or smell like to a mead new-shorn,
Thus on the sudden? Come and see
The cause why things thus fragrant be:
'Tis He is born whose quickening birth
Gives life and lustre public mirth
To heaven and the under-earth.

_Chor._--We see Him come, and know Him ours,
Who with His sunshine and His showers
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

The darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we find a room
To welcome Him. The nobler part
Of all the house here is the heart.

_Chor._--Which we will give Him; and bequeath
This holly and this ivy wreath,
To do Him honor, who's our King,
And Lord of all this revelling.

_Robert Herrick._

AND THEY LAID HIM IN A MANGER.

Happy crib, that wert alone
To my God, bed, cradle, throne!
Whilst thy glorious vileness I
View with divine fancy's