{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_67022/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_67022","id":"gutenberg_67022","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67022","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Christmas poetry"],"text":"_Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide_\n\n\n\n\n _SECOND EDITION ENLARGED_\n\n\n\n\n _Lyrics & Legends\n of Christmas-Tide_\n\n _CLINTON SCOLLARD_\n\n [Illustration: colophon]\n\n CLINTON, NEW YORK:\n GEORGE WILLIAM BROWNING\n M DCCCC VI\n\n\n _Copyrighted 1904 by Clinton Scollard_\n\n\n First Edition, October, 1904\n Second Edition, enlarged, December, 1905\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nA Bell 7\n\nChristmas Elves 8\n\nThe Christmas Angel 9\n\nNazareth Town 11\n\nA Christmas Masque 13\n\nA Song for Christmas Morning 15\n\nThe Christmas Minstrels 16\n\nTwelfth Night Song 17\n\nYule at Thengelfor 18\n\nA Yule-Tide Carol 21\n\nBallad of the Eve of Yule 22\n\nThe Hanging of the Holly 25\n\nThe Maid of Bethlehem 26\n\nThe Christmas Almsman 28\n\nThe Bells of Christmas 30\n\nChristmas Ingle Song 31\n\nNeil MacDonald 32\n\nThe Star of Bethlehem 34\n\nPierol\u2019s Christmas 35\n\nSong for the Eve of Yule 37\n\nThe Three Kings 38\n\nThe Wise Men 40\n\nA Yule Song 42\n\nThe Christmas Hunter 43\n\nA Christmas Song 45\n\nA Lover to His Rhyme 46\n\nThe Christmas Pilgrimage 47\n\nThe Yule-Log 50\n\nBallad of the Christmas Tryst 51\n\nA Knight\u2019s Christmas 55\n\nThe White Ladye 56\n\nThe Wizard People 57\n\nHolly Song 59\n\nGennesar 60\n\nFirelight 61\n\nMother of Pearl 62\n\nThe Bells of Ardo 63\n\nIn the Age of the Year 65\n\nA Lover\u2019s Christmas 66\n\nBallad of Kirkland Hills 67\n\nThe Closed Room 69\n\nUnder the Holly Bough 70\n\nCosette\u2019s Christmas 72\n\nPilgrims 76\n\n\n\n\n_Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide_\n\n\n\n\nA Bell\n\n\n Had I the power\n To cast a bell that should from some grand tower,\n At the first Christmas hour,\n Out-ring,\n And fling\n A jubilant message wide,\n The forg\u00e8d metals should be thus allied;--\n No iron Pride,\n But soft Humility and rich-veined Hope\n Cleft from a sunny slope,\n And there should be\n White Charity,\n And silvery Love, that knows nor Doubt nor Fear,\n To make the peal more clear;\n And then, to firmly fix the fine alloy,\n There should be Joy!\n\n\n\n\nChristmas Elves\n\n\n If you walk on Christmas eve,\n And the moon doth shine aright,\n You will see them weave,--\n Nimble gnome, and fay and sprite,--\n Devious dances in the lustrous lunar light.\n\n Round and round the holly bole\n Will they dart and glide and spring;\n And a tripping troll\n Will they in a chorus sing;\n Threading now in broken, now in link\u00e8d ring.\n\n _Berry bright, berry bright,\n Be the love about your hearth!\n Leafy green, leafy green,\n Be perennial your mirth!\n Sturdy as a holly bole be your footing of the earth!_\n\n These white spirits of old Yule,\n Happy you who hear their tune!\n Joy with you shall rule,\n Life for you shall be a boon\n Round the year through all the watches of the moon!\n\n\n\n\nThe Christmas Angel\n\n\n In middle heaven a form behold;\n Fair-aureoled\n Her shapely brow with noon-bright gold;\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n Upon a little cloud she stands,\n Within her hands\n A tympanum with scarlet bands;\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n Thereon she playeth without fault,\n While up the vault\n Her voice makes silvery assault--\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n Till, blended with her soaring notes,\n Adown there floats\n An echo from a myriad throats--\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n An angel she of God\u2019s own choir,\n Whose one desire\n Is higher yet to chant, and higher--\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n And every year, upon the morn\n When Christ was born\n Within the manger-bed forlorn--\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n \u2019Tis hers to bid song\u2019s raptures run\n From sun to sun,\n And list to earth\u2019s low antiphon--\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n Would that our praise might swell and rise\n Along the skies,\n And scale the gates of Paradise--\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n Bearing, with more complete accord,\n Unto the Lord,--\n Forevermore our watch and ward,--\n _Soli Deo Gloria!_\n\n\n\n\nNazareth Town\n\n\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n Set where the paths lead up from the sea\n That like the chords of a mighty lyre\n Dirges over the rocks of Tyre,\n Mourns where the piers of Sidon shone,\n And the battlements cinctured Ascalon.\n They have waned as the sunset wanes;\n Little more than a name remains;\n But more than a name we hold it,--we,--\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n Ah, what a golden harmony\n The dawn seems, flooding its bright white walls!\n And, when the violet twilight falls,\n What a vast processional of stars\n Pageants over its stilled bazaars!\n And when the full moon touches the height\n Of Tabor, a torch of brilliant light,\n Never was sight more fair to see;--\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n Strumming a desert melody,\n The Bedouin minstrel trolls in the street;\n At the Well of the Virgin the maidens meet;\n The cactus-hedges crimson to flower,\n And the olives silver hour by hour\n As through their branches the south wind steals;\n A clear bell peals, and a vulture wheels\n Over the crest where the wild crags be;--\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n At the sound of the words how memory\n Kindles as earth does under the spring,\n Till the dead days rise for our visioning;\n And out of them one compassionate face\n Beams with a more than mortal grace;\n Out of them one inspiring voice\n Cries in the ears of the world \u201crejoice!\u201d\n And ever a beacon of hope shall be\n Nazareth town in Galilee!\n\n\n\n\nA Christmas Masque\n\n\nFIRST KING\n\n I am the monarch Melchior,\n Mighty alike in peace and war.\n\n\nSECOND KING\n\n I am the sovereign Balthasar;\n A myriad fold my liegemen are.\n\n\nTHIRD KING\n\n The royal ruler Jasper, I,\n Lord of a spacious empery.\n\n\nFIRST KING\n\n Yet do I seek a little child,--\n\n\nSECOND KING\n\n A tiny nursling undefiled;\n\n\nTHIRD KING\n\n And I am one likewise beguiled.\n\n\nFIRST KING\n\n To Him whose coming stars foretold,--\n A babe divine in mortal mould,--\n I bear this goodly gift of gold.\n\n\nSECOND KING\n\n To Him whose life shall ease the sting\n Of mankind\u2019s weary travailing,\n This fragrant frankincense I bring.\n\n\nTHIRD KING\n\n To Him whose loving words shall stir\n To aspirations holier,\n My offering is this precious myrrh.\n\n\nALL\n\n Piercing the mists of time, we see\n The cruel cross, the agony,\n And, whelmed with pity, bend the knee.\n\n Piercing the mists of time, we gaze\n Adown the future\u2019s opening ways,\n And hear the swelling prayer and praise.\n\n Piercing the mists of time, we hail\n The day when woe and sin shall fail,\n And over all His love prevail.\n\n\n\n\nA Song for Christmas Morning\n\n\n O wear for garment mirth\n Upon the soul,\n As all the fields of earth\n Wear one white stole!\n A dream of things long gone\n Let sorrow be:\n Turn thou thine eyes on dawn,\n Thy heart on glee!\n\n What wonder everywhere\n Above, abroad!\n The amplitudes of air\n Abrim with God.\n His presence shining through\n The risen sun,\n And in the bending blue\n His benison.\n\n Into the gulfs of gloom\n Go death and night;\n Behold around thee bloom\n Glad life and light!\n The veil of darkness drawn,\n Thy vision free,\n Turn thou thy soul on dawn,\n Exultingly!\n\n\n\n\nThe Christmas Minstrels\n\n\n Now that the joy-day of the year is nearing,\n In that fair sun-land set \u2019twixt sea and sea,\n From hill and mountain dale behold appearing\n With jocund strains a minstrel company.\n\n The reeds that shepherds played in eras olden,\n These are the tuneful pipes whereon they blow;\n The sky that over-arches is the golden,\n The bright Calabrian sky of long ago.\n\n And since the decades of the saints and sages,\n When here to Christ was first raised prayerful praise,\n These minstrel men through all the echoing ages\n Have heralded the hallowed Christmas days.\n\n From lonely shrines on steep and stony byways\n Their clear wild music up the pathway soars;\n It gushes like a fount on traveled highways,\n And through the populous piazza pours.\n\n They cling to their old ways, these simple-hearted\n And humble dwellers on the uplands high;\n Their notes, an echo of the days departed,\n Span gulfs of time, and bring the dead years nigh.\n\n Long may the cool Calabrian laurel alleys\n Hearken the strains, in rarer ether born,\n Of minstrels wending down the mountain valleys\n To greet the coming of the Christmas morn!\n\n\n\n\nTwelfth Night Song\n\n\n Heaped be the fagots high,\n And the half-burn\u00e8d bough\n From last year\u2019s revelry\n Be litten now!\n Brimmed be the posset bowl\n For every lusty soul;\n And while the maskers rule,\n Cry \u2018Noel!\u2019 cry \u2018Noel!\u2019 down all the halls of Yule!\n\n O eager viols, thrill!\n Pipe, hautboys, clear and sweet!\n Work your impetuous will,\n Ye restless feet!\n For every lip--a glass!\n For every lad--a lass!\n And, ere the ardors cool,\n Cry \u2018Noel!\u2019 cry \u2018Noel!\u2019 down all the halls of Yule!\n\n\n\n\nYule at Thengelfor\n\n\n It was Yule at Thengelfor,--\n The sharp white tide of Yule;\n And the mail\u00e8d Thanes of War,\n Bred in the fiery school\n Of the devotees of Thor,\n Flung into the council-hall\n With sneer and clamorous call\n At the calm-browed Thanes of Peace\n Who worshiped without cease,--\n Bending in prayer the knee\n To the One of Galilee\n Who died, as they said, for all.\n\n Each man stood in his place\n That sharp white noon of Yule,\n And the War-Thanes hooted \u201cfool,\u201d\n And \u201ccoward\u201d and \u201ccraven knave;\u201d\n And they flashed, each one, a glaive\n In every Peace-Thane\u2019s face.\n But the Peace-Thanes were not cowed,\n Smiling their quiet smile\n At the flaunts and threats and jeers\n Roaring about their ears;\n And they held them poised and proud,\n Till, after a breathing while,\n The tumult died like the sea\n Subsiding sullenly\n Around the breast of an isle\n Set at the last fiord\u2019s verge,\n Fronting the western surge.\n\n Then into the council-hall\n Where Peace confronted War,--\n Where Christ confronted Thor,--\n Dauntless, willowy, tall,\n Came a maid of Thengelfor,--\n The Princess. Ah, how fair\n Was the sunrise sheen of her hair,\n More wondrous to behold\n Than her coronet of gold!\n And she paused between them there,\n As white as the Yule was white,\n Till a hush fell on the air\n Like the hush of the middle night.\n And she said, \u201cWhat stand ye for?\u201d\n To the mail\u00e8d Thanes of War;\n And they shouted shrill, \u201cFor Thor,\n And the kingdom\u2019s olden might!\u201d\n Then she turned her, level-eyed,\n To the Peace-Thanes. \u201cYe?\u201d she cried;\n As in one voice they replied,\n \u201cFor Christ, and the rule of right!\u201d\n\n \u201cThor and the war and might!\u201d\n Thus she mused for a space;\n \u201cChrist and peace and the right!\u201d\n And a glory mantled her face.\n \u201cBetter the right than might,\n Ye valiant Thanes of War!\n Blood now the Yule is white?\n Nay, \u2019twere a grievous sight!--\n Better the Christ than Thor!\u201d\n\n And ever and evermore\n By the Baltic\u2019s rugged shore,\n In the halls of Thengelfor,\n Right not might is the rule,\n The Christ and not sanguine Thor\n At the sharp white tide of Yule!\n\n\n\n\nA Yule-Tide Carol\n\n\n O lightly lift thy finger,\n Thou loving lutanist,\n And let around us linger\n Thy music\u2019s mellow mist!\n Aye, let the strain beat faster\n In captivating time,\n And mirth shall be our master\n Until the midnight chime!\n\n Noel!--hang high the holly\n While leaps the Yule-log\u2019s light;\n We\u2019ll drive gray Melancholy\n Abroad into the night!\n\n With silvery touch and tingle,\n Like brooks \u2019twixt sunny swards,\n Each soaring voice shall mingle\n And marry with the chords;\n So shall the liquid laughter\n Of mirth and music rule,\n Till rings the roof-tree\u2019s rafter\n With revelries of Yule.\n\n Noel!--hang high the holly,\n And twine the ivy-tod;\n My merries, we\u2019ll be jolly,\n And spurn care like a clod!\n\n\n\n\nBallad of the Eve of Yule\n\n\n It was hard on the tide of Yule,\n And the wind bit shrewd and sharp,\n Churning the river pool,\n And turning the deep-wood boughs,\n That were wont to droop and drowse,\n To the moaning strings of a harp.\n\n A snow-threat gloomed the sky,\n And with iterant, raucous caw\n A bevy of rooks went by,\n Each a seeming thing\n Of evil, ominous wing\n Flapping adown the flaw.\n\n Then night fell over the fen,\n And he mused, still stumbling on,\n \u201cOut of the world of men\n Into the shades I go!\u201d\n And he grimly laughed, when lo,\n A light on his pathway shone!\n\n \u201cMine enemy\u2019s tower!\u201d he said,\n As the beacon beckoned him. \u201cWell,\n Succor were likely as bread\n To be had from a shard or stone,\n Or meat from a wolf-gnawed bone,\n Or hope in the heart of hell!\u201d\n\n Yet he steered him sheer on the flare,\n With a \u201cHere or there, \u2019tis one!\n A corpse in the morning air,\n Frozen as rigid as steel,\n Or a form on gibbet or wheel,--\n What matters it how \u2019tis done!\u201d\n\n He clanged a summons clear,\n Keeping his grip on hate;\n And he wavered not to hear\n A word from a tongue abhorred,--\n Then back swung the outer ward,\n And his enemy stood in the gate.\n\n Eyes upon burning eyes\n Hung, as when war-fires rule\n Under the angry skies;\n Then, ere the wrath-flame died,\n \u201cWelcome!\u201d his enemy cried,\n \u201cFor this is the eve of Yule.\u201d\n\n Into the banquet-hall\n He was bid as a chosen guest;\n And there before them all\n Did his enemy give him meat,\n And bread of the finest wheat,\n And golden wine of the best.\n\n Then was he brought to a room\n Where rugs were soft on the floor,\n And a fire made fair the gloom;\n And, warned with a stern behest\n Of the sacred rights of a guest,\n A guard was set at the door.\n\n Through the black night-watches long\n Did he wait on sleep, but when\n Came the peal of the matin song\n No slumber had kissed his brow;\n So he girded himself, for now\n The sunlight lay on the fen.\n\n Then once more did his foe\n Proffer him drink and food;\n Forth to the court below\n Did his enemy lead the way,\n Where, as one for a fray,\n Chafing, a charger stood.\n\n \u201cHate!--it is burned into shame;\n Scorn!--of myself is the scorn;\n Blame!--I confess to the blame;\n Vengeance is thine!\u201d he said,\n And with averted head\n He rode out into the morn.\n\n\n\n\nThe Hanging of the Holly\n\n\n The holly is for happiness;\n Hang it, hang it high,\n When the holy morn we bless\n Shows its rose along the sky!\n\n The holly is for heartsome cheer;\n Hang it, hang it high,\n While the glory of the year\n Lights the heights of all the sky!\n\n The holly is for home-side mirth;\n Hang it, hang it high,\n Till the dearest day of earth\n Fades in shades along the sky!\n\n\n\n\nThe Maid of Bethlehem\n\n\n It was a maid of Bethlehem;--\n As fair as spring was she\n When first lifts up its fragile cup\n The rathe anemone.\n\n It was a man of Bethlehem;--\n As dark of heart was he\n As is night\u2019s Stygian shadow cast\n Upon the lone Dead Sea.\n\n He fawned where\u2019er she set her foot,\n He followed her like fate;\n And when she sealed his lips with scorn,\n He held a tryst with hate.\n\n And then, as venom through the veins,\n Through Bethlehem there ran\n A whispered malice in the air\n That spread from man to man.\n\n \u201cAnd shall this living lie endure?\u201d\n In rising rage, they said;\n \u201cThe purging fire shall work a cure\n Upon her sinful head!\u201d\n\n It was the maid of Bethlehem,\n In all her stainless grace,\n They seized before the House of God\n Within the market-place.\n\n It was the man of Bethlehem\n Who led the throng elate\n That bore her out with mocking shout\n Beyond the city gate.\n\n Around her heaped they fagots high,\n And touched the pile with flame;\n \u201cBehold!\u201d they cried, \u201cthe wanton witch!\n She expiates her shame!\u201d\n\n \u201cO sinless One of Calvary,\u201d\n Then did they hear her say,\n \u201cProve Thou my blameless innocence\n On this, Thy natal day!\u201d\n\n Lo, as she spake, each fiery tongue\n Leaped on her foe of foes,\n The while from charred and smoking boughs\n Burst rose on crimson rose!\n\n It was the man of Bethlehem\n Who died in agony;\n It was the maid of Bethlehem\n Who went unharmed and free.\n\n\n\n\nThe Christmas Almsman\n\n\n It was a Christmas almsman\n Came to a palace door;\n The flambeaux flared, the music blared,\n And gleamed the waxen floor.\n\n \u201cOut on thee, for a vagrant!\u201d\n A pompous porter cried;\n Quick, get thee gone ere goads be drawn\n To scourge thy tattered hide!\u201d\n\n The mirth roared to the rafter,\n With plenty groaned the board,\n Yet naught they gave that almsman gaunt\n Save flaunting fleer and ribald taunt,\n Despite his bare and bitter want,\n From all their Yule-tide hoard!\n\n It was a Christmas almsman\n Unto a hovel came;\n The walls so grim were drear and dim\n With one pale candle flame.\n\n Yet spake the kindly hoveler\n Who saw the beggar\u2019s face:\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome here, though lean our cheer;\n Enter, and bide a space!\u201d\n\n He shambled in; he crouched him down;\n He ate their meagre fare;\n And lo, they found, when he had sped,\n A scrip of gold and jewels red!\n _The hoveler had housed and fed\n An angel unaware!_\n\n\n\n\nThe Bells of Christmas\n\n\n \u201cPilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,\n What do you hear as you roam and roam?\u201d\n \u201cMaster, I list to the bells of Christmas,\n The bells of Christmas, calling me home!\n\n \u201cThey call and call, and I fain would hasten\n Back to the warmth of the old roof-tree,\n To the plentiful board and the merry faces,\n And the twilight prayer at the mother\u2019s knee!\u201d\n\n \u201cPilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,\n Why, then, still do you roam and roam?\u201d\n \u201cMaster, \u2019twas but a dream they conjured,\n The bells of Christmas, calling me home.\n\n \u201c\u2019Twas but a vision out of the distance,\n Happy and holy and sweet, forsooth!\n \u2019Twas but a vision out of the distance,\n Out of the long lost vale of Youth!\u201d\n\n \u201cPilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,\n All of us have our dreams like thee,\n And back are borne by the bells of Christmas\n To the twilight prayer at the mother\u2019s knee!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nChristmas Ingle Song\n\n\n Now once more the year has run\n (Sun succeeding sceptred sun)\n To the time of hallowed birth,\n To the holiest tide of earth;\n Out with sadness! out with sin!\n Let us hail the Christ-Child in!\n\n While we lift our thanks for thrift,\n Praise the giver and the gift,\n With the holly, berried bright,\n Druid ivy sprays unite!--\n Long they both have sacred been;\n Let us hail the Christ-Child in!\n\n And the back-log,--let it be\n From some ancient forest tree\n Great of girth, that flames may roar\n Up the chimney high and hoar,\n Thus to swell our merry din;\n Let us hail the Christ-Child in!\n\n Far into the night with song\n Let us the old rites prolong!\n Cry, \u201cNoel! noel! noel!\u201d\n Until peals the midnight bell!\n If we peace and love would win,\n Let us hail the Christ-Child in!\n\n\n\n\nNeil MacDonald\n\n\n \u201cWhither away, O Neil MacDonald?\n Whither away so fleet hie ye?\u201d\n \u201cI have a tryst to keep, my mother,\n Under the boughs of the holly tree!\u201d\n\n \u201cGo ye not, O Neil MacDonald!\n Go ye not, prithee! prithee!\u201d\n \u201cI must keep the tryst, my mother,\n Under the boughs of the holly tree!\u201d\n\n Into the night leaps Neil MacDonald;\n Every man has a weird to dree;\n He will dree his weird this Yule-tide\n Under the boughs of the holly tree.\n\n In the north the pale auroras\n Flash and waver spectrally;\n But the purple shadows slumber\n Under the boughs of the holly tree.\n\n Over the burn bounds Neil MacDonald;\n Through the bracken plunges he;\n He has won to the purple shadows\n Under the boughs of the holly tree.\n\n \u201cO my love!\u201d cries Neil MacDonald;\n \u201cO my love! my love!\u201d cries she;\n And their lips are met together\n Under the boughs of the holly tree.\n\n Bitter the frost upon the moor-side,\n Bitter the frost, but what recks he,\n With his arms about Fiorna\n Under the boughs of the holly tree!\n\n \u201cWhat is that I hear, beloved?\n What is that dark shape I see?\u201d\n \u201cYou but dream, my Neil MacDonald,\n Under the boughs of the holly tree.\u201d\n\n \u201cHe dreams not, your Neil MacDonald,\n Sister, false as the falsest be!\u201d\n Hark!--the clan-call of MacGregor\n Under the boughs of the holly tree!\n\n Hark!--the clan-call of MacGregor!--\n Every man has a weird to dree!\n He has dreed his, Neil MacDonald,\n Under the boughs of the holly tree.\n\n\n\n\nThe Star of Bethlehem\n\n\n Out of the past\u2019s black night\n There shines one star\n Whose light\n Is more than countless constellations are.\n\n High in the east it gleams;--\n This radiant star\n Whose beams\n Are more to man than all the planets are.\n\n Still be thy light displayed,\n O Bethlehem star,\n Nor fade\n Until the circling systems no more are!\n\n\n\n\nPierol\u2019s Christmas\n\n\n Into the hall on the night of Yule\n Capered the jester, blithe Pierol,\n Crying merrily, \u201cGifts for a fool!\u201d\n Sooth, right well did he play the role,\n Though the wolf of bitterness gnawed his soul!\n\n Proud his birth as the proudest there,--\n Count or baron or haughty knight,\n But poverty was his sorry share,--\n A lonely tower on a barren height\n (And a wit as bright as his purse was light).\n\n So under the motley he hid his name;\n Under the motley he hid his heart;\n But he could not hide nor he could not tame\n His leaping spirit that would out-start,\n Nor his face,--Endymion\u2019s counterpart.\n\n \u201cGifts for a fool!\u201d Troth, they loved him well,--\n Loved his beauty and blithesomeness,\n Loved his quips and lyric spell\n Of the songs he sang with so gay a stress,\n And his head thrown back like a hawk in jess!\n\n So they tossed him,--this one a golden chain,\n That one a bracelet, another a ring;\n Till out of all of that feasting train\n There was only a maid who had failed to fling\n Some bauble to him,--some costly thing.\n\n And she,--how fair like the thorn in May\n She seemed as she sat in her stainless guise!--\n As he paused in his pirouetting gay,\n Caught to heart the look in his fearless eyes\n That were fixed upon her in yearning wise;\n\n And raising a hand,--ne\u2019er was shapelier\n By prince or paladin won, I wis,\n In the shock of the lists, or the silken stir\n Of the courts of Love who is queen of bliss!--\n She cast him the honeyed boon of a kiss.\n\n \u201cGifts--for a--fool!\u201d far, fainter the cry\n Drooped in the distance to quaver and shift,\n A moment to linger, and then to die.\n Of all that meed of a jester\u2019s thrift\n Which to Pierol was the dearest gift?\n\n\n\n\nSong for the Eve of Yule\n\n\n Here\u2019s a fig for Melancholy,\n Now the year is at the Yule!\n Welcome Fun and welcome Folly!\n Welcome anything that\u2019s jolly!\n What say you, sweet Mistress Molly,\n Shall not Love and Laughter rule?\n\n Come and close about the ingle\n While the caverned chimney roars!\n Song and merriment shall mingle\n Till the very rafters tingle;\n Then shall sound the jangle-jingle\n Of the sleigh-bells at the doors!\n\n Out upon all frowning faces!\n Out upon the ghost of Gloom!\n In with games and glees and graces!\n Loose (for once) smug Custom\u2019s traces;\n Put old Momus through his paces!\n Give the merry maskers room!\n\n Aye, a fig for Melancholy!\n Garland Love, let Laughter rule!\n Hail to Fun and hail to Folly!\n Hail the jovial and the jolly!\n Shall we not, sweet Mistress Molly,\n Now the year is at the Yule!\n\n\n\n\nThe Three Kings\n\n\n Came those monarchs, grave and hoar,\n With their gifts, a goodly store,\n Gold and frankincense and myrrh,\n On that holy night of yore,--\n\n Ator, Sator, Sarasin,\n In their hallowed purpose kin,\n Following the guiding star,\n Each a sacred goal to win.\n\n Did they bear their offerings,\n Such a wealth of precious things,\n Unto one of princely place,\n Sprung, like them, from earthly kings?\n\n Nay, but to an infant born\n In a lowly spot forlorn\n Yet around whose glorious face\n Shone a halo like the morn!\n\n For a spirit unto each\n Spake in no uncertain speech,\n Saying, \u201cIn a manger lies\n One who God to man shall teach;\n One who shall the night o\u2019erthrow,\n Bearing heaven with Him below,--\n Love that triumphs over hate,\n Peace and joy that conquer woe.\u201d\n\n So those monarchs, men of fame,\n Bowed before Him, blessed His name,\n Laid their offerings at His feet,\n Passed as swiftly as they came.\n\n Stretch the years, a checkered chart,\n Since they played their deathless part,\n Yet to-day may we, like them,\n Giving, hold the Christ at heart.\n\n\n\n\nThe Wise Men\n\n\n The Wise Men wander across the wold,\n (O the Star in the sky!)\n Bearing their goodly gifts of gold.\n (How the low wind whispereth by!\n Whispereth\n Of birth, not death,\n With joy in its lifted cry!)\n\n The Wise Men come unto Bethlehem;\n (O the Star in the sky!)\n A star is the beacon that guideth them.\n (How the soft wind hasteneth by!\n Hasteneth\n The while it saith,\n \u201cO the Light of the World is nigh!\u201d)\n\n The Wise Men kneel at the infant\u2019s feet,\n (O the Star in the sky!)\n And the loving mother smileth sweet.\n (While the wind it hurrieth by,--\n Hurrieth\n As it gladly saith,\n \u201cO the Hope of the World is high!\u201d)\n\n The Wise Men rise, and they go their ways;\n (O the Star in the sky!)\n And all this happened in the ancient days.\n (But the wind still gladdeneth by,--\n Gladdeneth\n At the death of Death,\n That Life hath the victory!)\n\n\n\n\nA Yule Song\n\n\n Who cries \u2019tis folly to wreathe the bright holly?\n Who is it scoffs at the mistletoe bough?\n Marry, then, out on him! marry, then, flout on him!\n If there\u2019s a time to be jolly, \u2019tis now!\n\n Berry-tide, cherry-tide, each is a merry tide,\n And there\u2019s charm in the nutting, I vow!\n But none surpasses,--how say you, my lasses?--\n The time for up-hanging the mistletoe bough!\n\n Reason,--away with it! Men have grown gray with it,\n Pondering why and considering how;\n We have no part in it,--nay, and no heart in it!--\n Under the droop of the mistletoe bough!\n\n So, lads, your choices all! Lift, maids, your voices all!\n Love levels prince with the man at the plough.\n We\u2019ll make our boast of it, we\u2019ll make our toast of it,--\n Ne\u2019er may it wither, the mistletoe bough!\n\n\n\n\nThe Christmas Hunter\n\n\n With blare of horn and holloa,\n Who is it forth doth fare?\n It is the Christmas Hunter\n Who rides adown the air.\n\n Upon his wild steed, Sleipnir,\n He storms across the sky;\n And like the moan of ocean\n His vanguard surges by.\n\n They are the Judas-hearted,--\n They are the souls of them\n That spurned God\u2019s own anointed,\n The Man of Bethlehem.\n\n For them nor peace nor joyance\n At this high tide of Yule,\n Since they are doomed to follow\n The Hunter\u2019s iron rule.\n\n Rage fills his veins with riot\n When peals the Christmas mirth,\n For memory bears him backward\n When he had power on earth.\n\n So mad he whirls his minions\n Behind him fast and far,\n Without or pause or pity,\n From star to utmost star.\n\n The once almighty Odin\n Whom Christ hurled from his height,\n He is the Christmas Hunter\n Who roams the voids of night.\n\n\n\n\nA Christmas Song\n\n\n O\u2019er the wastes the crows are calling--\n _Caw! Caw!_\n In the hedges of the haw,\n Sparrows with their merry clatter\n Cheep and chatter,--\n _Naught\u2019s the matter!\n Marry, marry! naught\u2019s the matter!_\n Then it\u2019s ho! heigh-ho!\n All the waking world\u2019s aglow!\n And the mirthful bells of Christmas\n Ring across the snow!\n\n Down the garden Colin\u2019s calling--\n _Mollie! Mollie!_\n In the thickets of the holly\n Choruses the hidden starling,\n Saucy darling!\n _You\u2019re behind her!\n Kiss her, kiss her, when you find her!_\n Then it\u2019s ho! heigh-ho!\n Who\u2019s for worry, who\u2019s for woe,\n When the wooing bells of Christmas\n Ring across the snow?\n\n\n\n\nA Lover to His Rhyme\n\n\n Go seek her out, my rhyme,\n Her of the cruel heart,\n And with your softest chime,\n And with your blandest art,\n Plead that this merry time\n May see her frowns depart.\n\n And whisper, ah, so low!--\n (And mark ye if she sigh!)\n That sprays of mistletoe\n Are plucked to hang on high,\n That holly berries glow,\n That Christmas-tide is nigh.\n\n And if ye win one smile,\n O speed ye hither swift!\n From eyes cast down the while\n The aching gloom will lift,\n And in the orchard aisle\n Will flower the frozen drift.\n\n More I that ray will prize\n Than pearls of orient birth;\n \u2019Twill set the wintry skies\n A-dazzle over earth;\n And love, in lilied guise,\n Will light the Christmas hearth.\n\n\n\n\nThe Christmas Pilgrimage\n\n(Bethlehem)\n\n\n What means this waiting throng?\n Whence have these weary, way-worn wanderers come?\n Why rises, in strange tongues, the expectant hum,\n Like that tense under-song\n The joyful Jordan voices in the spring\n Till Hermon hearkens, leaning grandly down,\n And wearing still his shimmering snowy crown?\n Soon will these murmuring lips with ardor sing,\n And soon these lifted faces, wan or brown,\n Glow into worship that is rapturing.\n Back will be thrown the consecrated door,\n And then these feet, from many a distant shore,\n Be privileged to press the hallowed floor.\n\n Why have they come,--the hardy mountaineer\n From Lebanon\u2019s cedars and their checkered shade?\n The merchant and the snowy-mantled maid\n Who hold great Nilus dear?\n Why have they come,--the men with restless eyes\n And pallid cheeks that tell of norland skies?\n Why have they come,--the Latin and the Greek?\n Do pilgrims thus this sanctuary seek\n Because \u2019twas here\n For year on fiery year\n The red earth drank\n The deluged blood of Paynim and of Frank?\n Or do they surge to see\n The antique symmetry\n Of springing arch and carven pillar fine,\n In this old holy house of Constantine?\n\n Ah, no! ah, no! To them the memory\n Of war is not, and monarchs play no part\n In any thought that stirs an eager heart.\n They have no eyes to see\n A single graceful groining. What care they\n If here, upon a bygone Christmas-day,\n The King-crusader, Baldwin, took his crown!\n Or what to them the saint of blest renown\n In yonder sepulchre, now crumbling clay!\n Their patient feet one precious spot would press,\n Their yearning eyes would lovingly caress\n The time-dulled silver star\n Sunk deep within the pavement, footfall-worn:\n \u201c_Here, of the Virgin Mary, Christ was born_,\u201d\n They read, these pilgrims who have plodded far.\n They read and pass and ponder. Few can see\n The tiny chapel and the dim-lit shrine,\n And feel no thrill, despite the mummery,\n Of something more divine\n Within the breast than ever pulsed before.\n Then let us pilgrims be\n Upon this sacred day we all adore!\n Although our mortal feet touch not the floor,\n Although our mortal eyes may not behold,\n Our spirits may take flight,\n And with immortal sight\n Stand where the prayerful wise-men stood of old\n In ecstasy of adoration, when\n They saw the Savior of the sons of men.\n\n\n\n\nThe Yule-Log\n\n\n Hale the Yule-log in!\n Heap the fagots high!\n With a merry din\n Rouse old Revelry!\n Cry \u201cNoel! Noel!\u201d\n Till the rafters ring,\n And the gleeful bell\n Peals its answering!\n\n Brim the Christmas cup\n From the wassail-bowl,\n Now the flame leaps up\n With its ruddy soul!\n In the glowing blaze\n How the dancers spin!\n Deftest in the maze,\n Nimble Harlequin!\n\n Grim Snapdragon comes\n With his mimic ire,\n And his feast of plums\n Smothered in the fire.\n O the days of mirth,\n And the nights akin!\n Heap the Christmas hearth;\n Hale the Yule-log in!\n\n\n\n\nBallad of the Christmas Tryst\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s hey! my merry huntsman,\n With hound and hawk and horn,\n Where hie ye to the hunting\n This crispy Christmas morn?\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s ho! mine ancient gossip,\n To Wildmere wood I go,\n To seek beneath the boughs of Yule\n The roebuck and the roe.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s ha! my merry huntsman,\n A cunning tongue have ye;\n With deer ye keep no Christmas tryst\n Beneath the greenwood-tree.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s hist! mine ancient gossip,\n I prithee, speak me low,\n Lest they that love me not should hear\n To Wildmere wood I go.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s list! my merry huntsman,\n They wot thy coming well,\n And wait thee where the pathway dips\n To cross the birken dell.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s good! mine ancient gossip,\n How many may there be\n Betwixt me and my Christmas tryst\n Beneath the greenwood-tree?\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s hark! my merry huntsman,\n There\u2019s Bernard of the Bow,\n Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,\n And Giles of Clariveaux;\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s Giles, my merry huntsman,\n The wiliest of men,\n Brother in blood, though black his heart,\n To one whose name ye ken.\u201d\n\n \u201cGramercy! ancient gossip,\n And shall these stay my foot?\n Then may the House of Hardigrave\n Be withered to the root!\u201d\n\n He gave his page his hound in leash,\n His hawk and eke his horn,\n And gaily did he onward ride\n Beneath the Christmas morn.\n\n And now the birken dell was won,\n And now the shallow ford,\n And now he heard the scabbard ring\n Its answer to the sword.\n\n And forth from out the coppice deep\n Rode Bernard of the Bow,\n Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,\n And Giles of Clariveaux.\n\n Small parley was there then, God wot,\n But bickering of steel,\n And down clashed Bernard of the Bow\n Beneath his charger\u2019s heel.\n\n And Egbert of the Crooked Arm\n Reeled sidewise as he knew\n The sharp bite of a falchion\u2019s point\n His stricken harness through.\n\n Then clear rang out the huntsman\u2019s shout,\n Right merrily cried he,\n \u201cGod\u2019s with the son of Hardigrave\n Who loves _La Belle Marie_!\u201d\n\n Oh, deep cursed Giles of Clariveaux\n To hear his sister\u2019s name,\n While \u2019neath his vizor burned his eyes\n Like orbs of evil flame!\n\n \u201cHave at thee, Hardigrave!\u201d he hissed,\n \u201cThis riding thou shalt rue!\u201d\n And round them like a fiery mist\n The spiteful sparks outflew.\n\n \u2019Twas parry, cut and countercut,\n And fiercer-faced the while\n Grew treacherous Giles of Clariveaux\n To mark the huntsman\u2019s smile.\n\n And seeing he was sore beset,\n That urgent grew his need,\n He aimed a caitiff\u2019s coward blow\n To maim his foeman\u2019s steed.\n\n But vain that cruel, craven thrust,\n For whiles he strove to rein\n The shoulder of his sword-arm\n Was riven half in twain.\n\n * * * * *\n\n O starling in the thicket, see\n Where, eyes with love aglow,\n Adown the forest pathway goes\n The rose of Clariveaux!\n\n And hearken, O ye holly boughs!\n And, O ye larches, list!\n It is the song of one who rides\n To keep his Christmas tryst.\n\n\n\n\nA Knight\u2019s Christmas\n\n\n I hear the shrilling hautboys sound,\n The thrilling drums take up the din,\n And through the doorway\u2019s gaping bound\n A lusty, mincing manikin\n Bears, garlanded, the boar\u2019s head in.\n\n The great bells clamor in the tower\n Their jubilation. Down the hall\n Mirth bursts into a brilliant flower\n Of quip and toast and madrigal;\n \u201cNoel! Noel! Noel!\u201d cry all.\n\n And yet joy seems a thing foredone\n Forevermore in every place\n Beneath the red rays of the sun;--\n What is Christ\u2019s mass that wrought man grace\n Without the favor of love\u2019s face!\n\n\n\n\nThe White Ladye\n\n\n \u201cThe flax upon your distaff\n Is yellow as your hair,\n But why, on Christmas even,\n Thus spin you, maiden fair?\n\n \u201cThe joy-bells in the steeples\n Are ringing clear and wide;\n O stop the whirring spindle,\n And put the flax aside!\u201d\n\n \u201cNay, but I may not, master,\n Although I weary be,\n Lest through the open shutter\n Should peer the White Ladye;\n\n \u201cAnd find my treadle idle,\n My flax in tangled fold,\n And on the merry morrow\n Forget her gift of gold.\n\n \u201cFor to the slothful virgin\n She causeth sorrowing,\n But to the thrifty maiden\n A blessing she doth bring!\u201d\n\n A soft touch at the shutter,--\n A face divine to see!\n It is the fairy spinner,\n It is the White Ladye!\n\n\n\n\nThe Wizard People\n\n\n Adown the ways of winter,\n Above the vasts of snow,\n With woven flame their sandals shod,\n Through airy wastes by paths untrod,\n The wizard people go.\n\n By day their feats are hidden,\n But night beholds their mirth,\n When in the abysses of the air\n Their sorceries they flaunt and flare\n Above a wondering earth.\n\n In vain the hilltops hearken,\n Their lips no sound reveal;\n But ever on, from arc to arc,\n Across the spangled depths of dark\n Their pennons whirl and wheel.\n\n Why come they? Who can answer?\n Whence go they? Who can tell?\n Flaming and fading down the night,\n A mystery, a dream-delight,\n A splendor and a spell!\n\n Such are the wizard people,\n The brethren of the pole;\n And though man long has sought to gain\n Their secret, suns shall wax and wane\n Ere he shall read their soul!\n\n\n\n\nHolly Song\n\n\n Care is but a broken bubble,\n Trill the carol, troll the catch!\n Sooth we\u2019ll cry, \u201cA truce to trouble!\u201d\n Mirth and mistletoe shall match!\n\n _Happy folly! we\u2019ll be jolly!_\n _Who\u2019d be melancholy now?_\n _With a \u201cHey, the holly! ho, the holly!\u201d_\n _Polly hangs the holly bough._\n\n Laughter lurking in the eye, sir,\n Pleasure foots it frisk and free;\n He who frowns or looks awry, sir,\n Faith, a witless wight is he!\n\n _Merry folly! what a volley_\n _Greets the hanging of the bough!_\n _With a \u201cHey, the holly! ho, the holly!\u201d_\n _Who\u2019d be melancholy now?_\n\n\n\n\nGennesar\n\n\n Bright \u2019neath the Syrian sun, dim \u2019neath the Syrian star,\n Thus lieth Galilee\u2019s sea, sapphirine lake Gennesar;\n\n Girdled by mountains that range purple and proud to their crests,\n Bearing the burden of dreams,--glamour of eld,--on their breasts.\n\n Just one white glint of a sail dotting the brooding expanse;\n Beaches that sparkle and gleam, ripples that darkle and dance;\n\n Grandeur and beauty and peace welded year-long into one,\n Under the Syrian star, under the Syrian sun!\n\n And over all and through all memories sweet of His name\n Kindling the past with their light, touching the future with flame!\n\n\n\n\nFirelight\n\n\n Whene\u2019er at evening on the pictured wall\n I watch the flickering firelight rise and fall,\n From out the shifting shadow-vistas come\n The forms of those who marched to martyrdom,--\n Unflinching souls no agony could tame,\n A martyr wraith for every tongue of flame!\n\n\n\n\nMother-of-Pearl\n\n\n Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,\n Irradiant with all rainbow lights,--\n Shimmering, shifting opal whites,\n The June-time rose\u2019s palest fire,\n The sunset\u2019s most translucent gold,--\n Delicate as a precious gem\n Shaped for a lover\u2019s heart\u2019s desire,\n Glowing as morn, yet virgin cold!\n\n Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,\n Thus I read you, bending above\n Your sheen, more fair than the breast of a dove;--\n The white is the Mother without a stain;\n And the blended hues, the fire and the gold,\n They stand for Him who for diadem\n Had a crown of thorns, and was basely slain,--\n The Son of God clad in mortal mould!\n\n\n\n\nThe Bells of Ardo\n\n\n By wide gray orchards girdled,\n And cloistered deep in vines,\n Remote stood ancient Ardo\n Amid the Apennines.\n\n Below her banded belfries\n That loomed above the land\n For weeks gaunt Plague and Famine\n Had walked with link\u00e8d hand.\n\n Until, when neared the Yule-tide,\n On pale lips swooned the prayer,\n And only sounds of wailing\n Swept down the bitter air.\n\n No heart had any ringer\n To sound the joyful bells;\n The soaring campanile\n Pealed naught but burial knells.\n\n So when the Christmas sunlight\n Scattered the chill white haze\n The sorely scourg\u00e8d people\n Were smitten with amaze\n\n Hearing from San Stefano,--\n A spire and shrine forlorn,--\n A glorious jubilate\n Salute the startled morn.\n\n Fast flocked the folk, and wonder\n Swelled high that dawning hour,\n For unseen hands were swinging\n The bells within the tower.\n\n And \u2019twixt their rhythmic chiming,\n Word upon precious word,\n A vibrant voice of promise\n In solemn wise was heard;\n\n \u201cThis day,\u201d it cried, \u201cmy people,\n The cruel curse shall cease,\n And there shall fall upon you\n My benison of peace!\u201d\n\n When failed the silvery bell-notes\n Till arch and aisle were still,\n \u2019Twas found that all in Ardo\n Were healed of every ill.\n\n And now, as Christmas morning\n Breaks over street and square\n The bells of San Stefano\n Ring out upon the air;\n\n And still the gathered people\n Lift praise with glad accord\n Unto the One almighty\n That was their fathers\u2019 Lord.\n\n\n\n\nIn the Age of the Year\n\n\n Is it the wizard wind\n That has shriveled the quince\u2019s rind?\n Sooth, we know it was he\n Who shook the leaves from the tree\n And danced them out of breath\n Till they wizened away in death!\n Strange and subtile powers\n Have rule of these ashen hours,\n Binding the stricken sphere\n In this, the age of the year.\n\n Through the crisp\u00e8d grass and the husk\n Rustle the feet of the Dusk;\n And the only song we know\n Is the back-log\u2019s murmur low.\n Then come, and sit with me\n By the side of Memory\n And Love, with the bluet skies\n In her spring-reverting eyes,\n And there shall be vernal cheer\n In this, the age of the year!\n\n\n\n\nA Lover\u2019s Christmas\n\n\n Fade the last embers in the year\u2019s chill urn;\n Ah, love, how red the holly berries burn!\n\n A shroud of ermine hides the meadow ways;\n Ah, love, how green are still the ivy sprays!\n\n Black are the boughs against a sky of gray;\n Ah, love, how golden is the Yule-log\u2019s ray!\n\n Behind the wood the sad wind plainteth long;\n Ah, love, the mirth within the mummer\u2019s song!\n\n In garth and orchard naught but gloom and dearth;\n Ah, love, the joy about the Christmas hearth!\n\n Winter\u2019s white woe, its bitter sting and smart--\n Ah, love, the love aye vernal, in the heart!\n\n\n\n\nBallad of Kirkland Hills\n\n\n The grand old hills of Kirkland\n Stood up against the morn,\n As o\u2019er a rutty road there strode\n A pilgrim lean and lorn.\n\n The wood-crowned hills of Kirkland,\n They notched the wan blue sky,\n As toward that plodding pilgrim came\n A horseman urging by.\n\n \u201cI prithee, weary pilgrim,\n Now whither dost thou roam?\u201d\n \u201cI seek a gabled farmstead set\n Amid these hills of home;\n\n \u201cI seek an ancient rooftree set\n Amid these uplands white.\u201d\n \u201cGod give thee luck,\u201d the horseman cried,\n \u201cBefore this Christmas night!\u201d\n\n The kindly hills of Kirkland,\n They saw, when broad noon shone\n Above the fair Oriska vale,\n This pilgrim toiling on.\n\n The hemlocks preened their night-dark plumes\n As up and up he clomb;\n The same old rook-calls welcomed him\n Back to the hills of home.\n\n High on the hills of Kirkland\n Where hale the north-wind roared,\n O gay were they that grouped about\n The heap\u00e8d Christmas board!\n\n And yet the brooding mother,\n With smiles she hid the tear\n For one whose lips she had not kissed\n This many a lonely year;\n\n For one whose wander-lust had led\n His roving spirit far,\n Until she dreamed he slept beneath\n The clear Alaskan star.\n\n Hark, at the door a summons!\n A step upon the sill!\n O mother-eyes abrim with joy,\n And mother-heart athrill!\n\n And O ye hills of Kirkland,\n In wintry white and gray,\n A gladder sight ye never saw\n On any Christmas day!\n\n\n\n\nThe Closed Room\n\n\n In the marvelous house of life\n Each year is a clos\u00e8d room;\n It is filled with peace and strife,\n It is packed with glow and gloom.\n\n There are hopes in the hues of dream,\n There are cares in their grim array,\n There are pleasures that glint and gleam,\n And sorrows in drugget gray.\n\n For some, with his infinite grace,\n Love waits when the portal jars;\n For some, with his sphinx-like face,\n Death stands when the door unbars.\n\n Some back from the threshold shrink,\n As loath from the past to part;\n But the most plunge over the brink\n With never a fear at heart.\n\n Then silent closes the door\n At the sound of the last old chime,\n And the key--Forevermore--\n Is turned by the keeper--Time!\n\n\n\n\nUnder the Holly Bough\n\n\n When the hale year laughed in the prime of May,\n And each path was a lure to the truant eye,\n When the south-wind sang: \u201cCome away! Come away!\u201d\n (Ah, but the blue of a vernal sky!)\n When the vireo\u2019s voice was a lyric cry,\n \u2019Twas the bloom o\u2019 the apple beckoned us; now\n When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why,\n \u2019Tis under the green of the holly bough!\n\n When the meadows swooned in the dazzling day,\n And the hilltops seemed in a dream to lie,\n When shrill was the locust\u2019s roundelay,\n (Ah, but the glow of a summer sky!)\n When the stream-song sank to a rippling sigh,\n \u2019Twas the pleach o\u2019 the elm-leaves beckoned us; now\n When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why,\n \u2019Tis under the green of the holly bough!\n\n When the woodland gleamed like a prismy ray,\n And the distance drowsed in a golden dye,\n When vineyard and orchard aisles were gay\n (Ah, but the depths of an autumn sky!)\n With stains like a web of Tyrian ply,\n \u2019Twas the flame o\u2019 the maple beckoned us; now\n When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why,\n \u2019Tis under the green of the holly bough!\n\n\nENVOY\n\n\n Spring, summer and autumn have all sped by,\n (Ah, but the chill of a winter sky!)\n Yet love still calls to the tryst, and now\n \u2019Tis under the green of the holly bough!\n\n\n\n\nCosette\u2019s Christmas\n\n\n Cosette they called her; Cosette, that was all;\n Fragile she was and flower-like, slim and tall\n For her eleven years, wherein her heart\n Had known but little save the world\u2019s sharp smart.\n Never her ear had heard a mother\u2019s croon;\n Never for her, about the break of June,\n Had been outstretched a father\u2019s shielding hand\n To guide her woodward through the smiling land.\n The streets oppressed her with their cruel roar;\n The birds she saw above her dart and soar,\n Theirs was the life she longed for, not to be\n Mewed within walls that were a gloom to see,\n And stung with taunts from a virago tongue\n That aged her spirit yearning to be young.\n Foundling,--a fate that brooked of no appeal\n Was hers by some inexorable seal.\n\n Backward and forward oft she went and came\n From the grim spot, that was but home in name,\n On casual errandry. It chanced one day,\n As she passed swiftly on her timid way,\n (\u2019Twas near the season of the Christ-child\u2019s birth,\n The happy tide of peace and love on earth)\n A heedless hand struck from her feeble grasp\n The glass she strove so carefully to clasp,\n And she beheld it, with a plaintive cry,\n Shattered before her on the pavement lie.\n The throng swept by, and caught her in its swirl;\n There was no lip to soothe the sobbing girl,\n No kindliness to aid her. A great fear\n Clutched at her breast; she knew the stabbing jeer,\n The pitiless blows that waited her when she\n Told the ill outcome of her errandry.\n Then through her brain there flashed a sudden word\n That in the hive-like purlieus she had heard,\n And filled her mind with sunshine. No affright\n Touched her with chill at thought of death\u2019s dim night,\n For she recalled how once the preacher said\n That in white lily-gardens walk the dead.\n So in she stole at the accustomed door,\n Sought out a room upon the lower floor\n Wherein the porter, sullen-visaged, slept;\n Toward a remembered drawer on tiptoe crept,\n Plucked, undetected, thence a shining thing,\n And gained again the street in triumphing.\n A ringing shot, a little piteous moan,\n And a child\u2019s blood encrimsoning the stone!\n When Cosette oped her heavy-lidded eyes,\n Wonder assailed her, and a great surmise.\n Was this the lily-land of her delight?\n It shone so bare, and yet so very white!\n Long stainless walls and little cots in rows,\n And one whose smile invited to repose;\n She drowsed, her mind still dwelling on that face,\n And dreamed she\u2019d found the angels\u2019 sleeping-place.\n And when, next day, they told her where she lay,\n A tiny tear-drop found its mournful way\n Adown the death-like pallor of her cheek;\n She closed her eyes and sighed, but did not speak.\n\n Dawn followed dawn, and still the little one\n Went not to that dim bourn beyond the sun,\n But ever seemed about to pass thereto;\n Nearer and nearer now the Yule-tide drew,\n And to the hospital one morn there strayed\n A kindly man who made the news his trade,\n And learned the piteous story of the maid.\n \u201cCosette,\u201d he said, with a strange catch of tone,\n His sight grown dim, remembering his own,\n \u201cHave you no wish?\u201d and she, with him at ease,\n Cried,--\u201cTwo red roses and an orange, please!\u201d\n\n _Just two red roses and an orange!_ So\n He wrote next day that all the town might know;\n Then Christmas morning broke above the snow.\n The morn of Christmas broke; bell spoke to bell\n The loving message of \u201cgood-will\u201d to tell;\n The postmen bustled on their burdened round;\n And happy greetings rang with cordial sound.\n Then, at the hospital, a summons came,\n Another and another, and the name\n The answering nurse with every message met\n Was still \u201cCosette,\u201d and evermore \u201cCosette,\u201d\n For all had read the story of the child.\n Roses upon her bed were strewn and piled,\n And breathed their June about her everywhere,\n Gleamed on the table, glistened on the chair,\n From the soft loveliness of the pale tea-rose\n To the deep splendor of the Jacqueminots.\n And oranges! forsooth, it was as though\n The palm-set lands where the long trade-winds blow,\n Fair Florida and the Lucayan shores,\n Had here unbosomed their most precious stores!\n Both rich and poor had sought to ease the smart\n Of her whose tale had touched the city\u2019s heart.\n And she--Cosette--through kindness\u2019 golden dower,\n Smiled upon life, and mended from that hour.\n\n\n\n\nPilgrims\n\n\n Their path who shall unravel,\n Their purpose who unroll?\n From out the past they travel,\n The future is their goal.\n\n Theirs are the forward faces,\n The spring\u2019s Arcadian airs;\n The old eternal graces\n Of youngling Time are theirs.\n\n Or gold the sky or ashen,\n There broods within their breast\n The sleepless pilgrim passion,\n The sweet divine unrest.\n\n They neither flag nor falter,\n They tarry not nor tire;\n Their aim they will not alter\n Although a king desire.\n\n They fear nor frost nor fever,\n Nor fire nor famine they;\n They follow Fate, the weaver,\n For ever and a day.\n\n Now tell their eyes the story\n Of more than mortal tears,\n Now gleam with starry glory,\n The passing pilgrim Years.","title":"Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":8287}