PARTITURA
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,
gathering
winter fuel.
Hither,
page, and stand by me.
If
thou know 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 the 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 my good page,
tread
thou in them boldly:
Thou
shalt find the winter's rage
freeze
thy blood less coldly.
In
his master's step he trod,
where
the snow lay dented.
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
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