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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, tho' the frost was cruel,When a poor man came in sight gath'ring winter fuel.
"Hither, page, and stand by me, if thou know'st 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 them 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 steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;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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