It was a Christmas almsmanCame to a palace door;The flambeaux flared, the music blared,And gleamed the waxen floor.“Out on thee, for a vagrant!”A pompous porter cried;Quick, get thee gone ere goads be drawnTo scourge thy tattered hide!”The mirth roared to the rafter,With plenty groaned the board,Yet naught they gave that almsman gauntSave flaunting fleer and ribald taunt,Despite his bare and bitter want,From all their Yule-tide hoard!It was a Christmas almsmanUnto a hovel came;The walls so grim were drear and dimWith one pale candle flame.Yet spake the kindly hovelerWho saw the beggar’s face:“You’re welcome here, though lean our cheer;Enter, and bide a space!”He shambled in; he crouched him down;He ate their meagre fare;And lo, they found, when he had sped,A scrip of gold and jewels red!The hoveler had housed and fedAn angel unaware!
It was a Christmas almsmanCame to a palace door;The flambeaux flared, the music blared,And gleamed the waxen floor.“Out on thee, for a vagrant!”A pompous porter cried;Quick, get thee gone ere goads be drawnTo scourge thy tattered hide!”The mirth roared to the rafter,With plenty groaned the board,Yet naught they gave that almsman gauntSave flaunting fleer and ribald taunt,Despite his bare and bitter want,From all their Yule-tide hoard!It was a Christmas almsmanUnto a hovel came;The walls so grim were drear and dimWith one pale candle flame.Yet spake the kindly hovelerWho saw the beggar’s face:“You’re welcome here, though lean our cheer;Enter, and bide a space!”He shambled in; he crouched him down;He ate their meagre fare;And lo, they found, when he had sped,A scrip of gold and jewels red!The hoveler had housed and fedAn angel unaware!
It was a Christmas almsmanCame to a palace door;The flambeaux flared, the music blared,And gleamed the waxen floor.
“Out on thee, for a vagrant!”A pompous porter cried;Quick, get thee gone ere goads be drawnTo scourge thy tattered hide!”
The mirth roared to the rafter,With plenty groaned the board,Yet naught they gave that almsman gauntSave flaunting fleer and ribald taunt,Despite his bare and bitter want,From all their Yule-tide hoard!
It was a Christmas almsmanUnto a hovel came;The walls so grim were drear and dimWith one pale candle flame.
Yet spake the kindly hovelerWho saw the beggar’s face:“You’re welcome here, though lean our cheer;Enter, and bide a space!”
He shambled in; he crouched him down;He ate their meagre fare;And lo, they found, when he had sped,A scrip of gold and jewels red!The hoveler had housed and fedAn angel unaware!
“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,What do you hear as you roam and roam?”“Master, I list to the bells of Christmas,The bells of Christmas, calling me home!“They call and call, and I fain would hastenBack to the warmth of the old roof-tree,To the plentiful board and the merry faces,And the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,Why, then, still do you roam and roam?”“Master, ’twas but a dream they conjured,The bells of Christmas, calling me home.“’Twas but a vision out of the distance,Happy and holy and sweet, forsooth!’Twas but a vision out of the distance,Out of the long lost vale of Youth!”“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,All of us have our dreams like thee,And back are borne by the bells of ChristmasTo the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”
“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,What do you hear as you roam and roam?”“Master, I list to the bells of Christmas,The bells of Christmas, calling me home!“They call and call, and I fain would hastenBack to the warmth of the old roof-tree,To the plentiful board and the merry faces,And the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,Why, then, still do you roam and roam?”“Master, ’twas but a dream they conjured,The bells of Christmas, calling me home.“’Twas but a vision out of the distance,Happy and holy and sweet, forsooth!’Twas but a vision out of the distance,Out of the long lost vale of Youth!”“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,All of us have our dreams like thee,And back are borne by the bells of ChristmasTo the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”
“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,What do you hear as you roam and roam?”“Master, I list to the bells of Christmas,The bells of Christmas, calling me home!
“They call and call, and I fain would hastenBack to the warmth of the old roof-tree,To the plentiful board and the merry faces,And the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”
“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,Why, then, still do you roam and roam?”“Master, ’twas but a dream they conjured,The bells of Christmas, calling me home.
“’Twas but a vision out of the distance,Happy and holy and sweet, forsooth!’Twas but a vision out of the distance,Out of the long lost vale of Youth!”
“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,All of us have our dreams like thee,And back are borne by the bells of ChristmasTo the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”
Now once more the year has run(Sun succeeding sceptred sun)To the time of hallowed birth,To the holiest tide of earth;Out with sadness! out with sin!Let us hail the Christ-Child in!While we lift our thanks for thrift,Praise the giver and the gift,With the holly, berried bright,Druid ivy sprays unite!—Long they both have sacred been;Let us hail the Christ-Child in!And the back-log,—let it beFrom some ancient forest treeGreat of girth, that flames may roarUp the chimney high and hoar,Thus to swell our merry din;Let us hail the Christ-Child in!Far into the night with songLet us the old rites prolong!Cry, “Noel! noel! noel!”Until peals the midnight bell!If we peace and love would win,Let us hail the Christ-Child in!
Now once more the year has run(Sun succeeding sceptred sun)To the time of hallowed birth,To the holiest tide of earth;Out with sadness! out with sin!Let us hail the Christ-Child in!While we lift our thanks for thrift,Praise the giver and the gift,With the holly, berried bright,Druid ivy sprays unite!—Long they both have sacred been;Let us hail the Christ-Child in!And the back-log,—let it beFrom some ancient forest treeGreat of girth, that flames may roarUp the chimney high and hoar,Thus to swell our merry din;Let us hail the Christ-Child in!Far into the night with songLet us the old rites prolong!Cry, “Noel! noel! noel!”Until peals the midnight bell!If we peace and love would win,Let us hail the Christ-Child in!
Now once more the year has run(Sun succeeding sceptred sun)To the time of hallowed birth,To the holiest tide of earth;Out with sadness! out with sin!Let us hail the Christ-Child in!
While we lift our thanks for thrift,Praise the giver and the gift,With the holly, berried bright,Druid ivy sprays unite!—Long they both have sacred been;Let us hail the Christ-Child in!
And the back-log,—let it beFrom some ancient forest treeGreat of girth, that flames may roarUp the chimney high and hoar,Thus to swell our merry din;Let us hail the Christ-Child in!
Far into the night with songLet us the old rites prolong!Cry, “Noel! noel! noel!”Until peals the midnight bell!If we peace and love would win,Let us hail the Christ-Child in!
“Whither away, O Neil MacDonald?Whither away so fleet hie ye?”“I have a tryst to keep, my mother,Under the boughs of the holly tree!”“Go ye not, O Neil MacDonald!Go ye not, prithee! prithee!”“I must keep the tryst, my mother,Under the boughs of the holly tree!”Into the night leaps Neil MacDonald;Every man has a weird to dree;He will dree his weird this Yule-tideUnder the boughs of the holly tree.In the north the pale aurorasFlash and waver spectrally;But the purple shadows slumberUnder the boughs of the holly tree.Over the burn bounds Neil MacDonald;Through the bracken plunges he;He has won to the purple shadowsUnder the boughs of the holly tree.“O my love!” cries Neil MacDonald;“O my love! my love!” cries she;And their lips are met togetherUnder the boughs of the holly tree.Bitter the frost upon the moor-side,Bitter the frost, but what recks he,With his arms about FiornaUnder the boughs of the holly tree!“What is that I hear, beloved?What is that dark shape I see?”“You but dream, my Neil MacDonald,Under the boughs of the holly tree.”“He dreams not, your Neil MacDonald,Sister, false as the falsest be!”Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregorUnder the boughs of the holly tree!Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor!—Every man has a weird to dree!He has dreed his, Neil MacDonald,Under the boughs of the holly tree.
“Whither away, O Neil MacDonald?Whither away so fleet hie ye?”“I have a tryst to keep, my mother,Under the boughs of the holly tree!”“Go ye not, O Neil MacDonald!Go ye not, prithee! prithee!”“I must keep the tryst, my mother,Under the boughs of the holly tree!”Into the night leaps Neil MacDonald;Every man has a weird to dree;He will dree his weird this Yule-tideUnder the boughs of the holly tree.In the north the pale aurorasFlash and waver spectrally;But the purple shadows slumberUnder the boughs of the holly tree.Over the burn bounds Neil MacDonald;Through the bracken plunges he;He has won to the purple shadowsUnder the boughs of the holly tree.“O my love!” cries Neil MacDonald;“O my love! my love!” cries she;And their lips are met togetherUnder the boughs of the holly tree.Bitter the frost upon the moor-side,Bitter the frost, but what recks he,With his arms about FiornaUnder the boughs of the holly tree!“What is that I hear, beloved?What is that dark shape I see?”“You but dream, my Neil MacDonald,Under the boughs of the holly tree.”“He dreams not, your Neil MacDonald,Sister, false as the falsest be!”Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregorUnder the boughs of the holly tree!Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor!—Every man has a weird to dree!He has dreed his, Neil MacDonald,Under the boughs of the holly tree.
“Whither away, O Neil MacDonald?Whither away so fleet hie ye?”“I have a tryst to keep, my mother,Under the boughs of the holly tree!”
“Go ye not, O Neil MacDonald!Go ye not, prithee! prithee!”“I must keep the tryst, my mother,Under the boughs of the holly tree!”
Into the night leaps Neil MacDonald;Every man has a weird to dree;He will dree his weird this Yule-tideUnder the boughs of the holly tree.
In the north the pale aurorasFlash and waver spectrally;But the purple shadows slumberUnder the boughs of the holly tree.
Over the burn bounds Neil MacDonald;Through the bracken plunges he;He has won to the purple shadowsUnder the boughs of the holly tree.
“O my love!” cries Neil MacDonald;“O my love! my love!” cries she;And their lips are met togetherUnder the boughs of the holly tree.
Bitter the frost upon the moor-side,Bitter the frost, but what recks he,With his arms about FiornaUnder the boughs of the holly tree!
“What is that I hear, beloved?What is that dark shape I see?”“You but dream, my Neil MacDonald,Under the boughs of the holly tree.”
“He dreams not, your Neil MacDonald,Sister, false as the falsest be!”Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregorUnder the boughs of the holly tree!
Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor!—Every man has a weird to dree!He has dreed his, Neil MacDonald,Under the boughs of the holly tree.
Out of the past’s black nightThere shines one starWhose lightIs more than countless constellations are.High in the east it gleams;—This radiant starWhose beamsAre more to man than all the planets are.Still be thy light displayed,O Bethlehem star,Nor fadeUntil the circling systems no more are!
Out of the past’s black nightThere shines one starWhose lightIs more than countless constellations are.High in the east it gleams;—This radiant starWhose beamsAre more to man than all the planets are.Still be thy light displayed,O Bethlehem star,Nor fadeUntil the circling systems no more are!
Out of the past’s black nightThere shines one starWhose lightIs more than countless constellations are.
High in the east it gleams;—This radiant starWhose beamsAre more to man than all the planets are.
Still be thy light displayed,O Bethlehem star,Nor fadeUntil the circling systems no more are!
Into the hall on the night of YuleCapered the jester, blithe Pierol,Crying merrily, “Gifts for a fool!”Sooth, right well did he play the role,Though the wolf of bitterness gnawed his soul!Proud his birth as the proudest there,—Count or baron or haughty knight,But poverty was his sorry share,—A lonely tower on a barren height(And a wit as bright as his purse was light).So under the motley he hid his name;Under the motley he hid his heart;But he could not hide nor he could not tameHis leaping spirit that would out-start,Nor his face,—Endymion’s counterpart.“Gifts for a fool!” Troth, they loved him well,—Loved his beauty and blithesomeness,Loved his quips and lyric spellOf the songs he sang with so gay a stress,And his head thrown back like a hawk in jess!So they tossed him,—this one a golden chain,That one a bracelet, another a ring;Till out of all of that feasting trainThere was only a maid who had failed to flingSome bauble to him,—some costly thing.And she,—how fair like the thorn in MayShe seemed as she sat in her stainless guise!—As he paused in his pirouetting gay,Caught to heart the look in his fearless eyesThat were fixed upon her in yearning wise;And raising a hand,—ne’er was shapelierBy prince or paladin won, I wis,In the shock of the lists, or the silken stirOf the courts of Love who is queen of bliss!—She cast him the honeyed boon of a kiss.“Gifts—for a—fool!” far, fainter the cryDrooped in the distance to quaver and shift,A moment to linger, and then to die.Of all that meed of a jester’s thriftWhich to Pierol was the dearest gift?
Into the hall on the night of YuleCapered the jester, blithe Pierol,Crying merrily, “Gifts for a fool!”Sooth, right well did he play the role,Though the wolf of bitterness gnawed his soul!Proud his birth as the proudest there,—Count or baron or haughty knight,But poverty was his sorry share,—A lonely tower on a barren height(And a wit as bright as his purse was light).So under the motley he hid his name;Under the motley he hid his heart;But he could not hide nor he could not tameHis leaping spirit that would out-start,Nor his face,—Endymion’s counterpart.“Gifts for a fool!” Troth, they loved him well,—Loved his beauty and blithesomeness,Loved his quips and lyric spellOf the songs he sang with so gay a stress,And his head thrown back like a hawk in jess!So they tossed him,—this one a golden chain,That one a bracelet, another a ring;Till out of all of that feasting trainThere was only a maid who had failed to flingSome bauble to him,—some costly thing.And she,—how fair like the thorn in MayShe seemed as she sat in her stainless guise!—As he paused in his pirouetting gay,Caught to heart the look in his fearless eyesThat were fixed upon her in yearning wise;And raising a hand,—ne’er was shapelierBy prince or paladin won, I wis,In the shock of the lists, or the silken stirOf the courts of Love who is queen of bliss!—She cast him the honeyed boon of a kiss.“Gifts—for a—fool!” far, fainter the cryDrooped in the distance to quaver and shift,A moment to linger, and then to die.Of all that meed of a jester’s thriftWhich to Pierol was the dearest gift?
Into the hall on the night of YuleCapered the jester, blithe Pierol,Crying merrily, “Gifts for a fool!”Sooth, right well did he play the role,Though the wolf of bitterness gnawed his soul!
Proud his birth as the proudest there,—Count or baron or haughty knight,But poverty was his sorry share,—A lonely tower on a barren height(And a wit as bright as his purse was light).
So under the motley he hid his name;Under the motley he hid his heart;But he could not hide nor he could not tameHis leaping spirit that would out-start,Nor his face,—Endymion’s counterpart.
“Gifts for a fool!” Troth, they loved him well,—Loved his beauty and blithesomeness,Loved his quips and lyric spellOf the songs he sang with so gay a stress,And his head thrown back like a hawk in jess!
So they tossed him,—this one a golden chain,That one a bracelet, another a ring;Till out of all of that feasting trainThere was only a maid who had failed to flingSome bauble to him,—some costly thing.
And she,—how fair like the thorn in MayShe seemed as she sat in her stainless guise!—As he paused in his pirouetting gay,Caught to heart the look in his fearless eyesThat were fixed upon her in yearning wise;
And raising a hand,—ne’er was shapelierBy prince or paladin won, I wis,In the shock of the lists, or the silken stirOf the courts of Love who is queen of bliss!—She cast him the honeyed boon of a kiss.
“Gifts—for a—fool!” far, fainter the cryDrooped in the distance to quaver and shift,A moment to linger, and then to die.Of all that meed of a jester’s thriftWhich to Pierol was the dearest gift?
Here’s a fig for Melancholy,Now the year is at the Yule!Welcome Fun and welcome Folly!Welcome anything that’s jolly!What say you, sweet Mistress Molly,Shall not Love and Laughter rule?Come and close about the ingleWhile the caverned chimney roars!Song and merriment shall mingleTill the very rafters tingle;Then shall sound the jangle-jingleOf the sleigh-bells at the doors!Out upon all frowning faces!Out upon the ghost of Gloom!In with games and glees and graces!Loose (for once) smug Custom’s traces;Put old Momus through his paces!Give the merry maskers room!Aye, a fig for Melancholy!Garland Love, let Laughter rule!Hail to Fun and hail to Folly!Hail the jovial and the jolly!Shall we not, sweet Mistress Molly,Now the year is at the Yule!
Here’s a fig for Melancholy,Now the year is at the Yule!Welcome Fun and welcome Folly!Welcome anything that’s jolly!What say you, sweet Mistress Molly,Shall not Love and Laughter rule?Come and close about the ingleWhile the caverned chimney roars!Song and merriment shall mingleTill the very rafters tingle;Then shall sound the jangle-jingleOf the sleigh-bells at the doors!Out upon all frowning faces!Out upon the ghost of Gloom!In with games and glees and graces!Loose (for once) smug Custom’s traces;Put old Momus through his paces!Give the merry maskers room!Aye, a fig for Melancholy!Garland Love, let Laughter rule!Hail to Fun and hail to Folly!Hail the jovial and the jolly!Shall we not, sweet Mistress Molly,Now the year is at the Yule!
Here’s a fig for Melancholy,Now the year is at the Yule!Welcome Fun and welcome Folly!Welcome anything that’s jolly!What say you, sweet Mistress Molly,Shall not Love and Laughter rule?
Come and close about the ingleWhile the caverned chimney roars!Song and merriment shall mingleTill the very rafters tingle;Then shall sound the jangle-jingleOf the sleigh-bells at the doors!
Out upon all frowning faces!Out upon the ghost of Gloom!In with games and glees and graces!Loose (for once) smug Custom’s traces;Put old Momus through his paces!Give the merry maskers room!
Aye, a fig for Melancholy!Garland Love, let Laughter rule!Hail to Fun and hail to Folly!Hail the jovial and the jolly!Shall we not, sweet Mistress Molly,Now the year is at the Yule!
Came those monarchs, grave and hoar,With their gifts, a goodly store,Gold and frankincense and myrrh,On that holy night of yore,—Ator, Sator, Sarasin,In their hallowed purpose kin,Following the guiding star,Each a sacred goal to win.Did they bear their offerings,Such a wealth of precious things,Unto one of princely place,Sprung, like them, from earthly kings?Nay, but to an infant bornIn a lowly spot forlornYet around whose glorious faceShone a halo like the morn!For a spirit unto eachSpake in no uncertain speech,Saying, “In a manger liesOne who God to man shall teach;One who shall the night o’erthrow,Bearing heaven with Him below,—Love that triumphs over hate,Peace and joy that conquer woe.”So those monarchs, men of fame,Bowed before Him, blessed His name,Laid their offerings at His feet,Passed as swiftly as they came.Stretch the years, a checkered chart,Since they played their deathless part,Yet to-day may we, like them,Giving, hold the Christ at heart.
Came those monarchs, grave and hoar,With their gifts, a goodly store,Gold and frankincense and myrrh,On that holy night of yore,—Ator, Sator, Sarasin,In their hallowed purpose kin,Following the guiding star,Each a sacred goal to win.Did they bear their offerings,Such a wealth of precious things,Unto one of princely place,Sprung, like them, from earthly kings?Nay, but to an infant bornIn a lowly spot forlornYet around whose glorious faceShone a halo like the morn!For a spirit unto eachSpake in no uncertain speech,Saying, “In a manger liesOne who God to man shall teach;One who shall the night o’erthrow,Bearing heaven with Him below,—Love that triumphs over hate,Peace and joy that conquer woe.”So those monarchs, men of fame,Bowed before Him, blessed His name,Laid their offerings at His feet,Passed as swiftly as they came.Stretch the years, a checkered chart,Since they played their deathless part,Yet to-day may we, like them,Giving, hold the Christ at heart.
Came those monarchs, grave and hoar,With their gifts, a goodly store,Gold and frankincense and myrrh,On that holy night of yore,—
Ator, Sator, Sarasin,In their hallowed purpose kin,Following the guiding star,Each a sacred goal to win.
Did they bear their offerings,Such a wealth of precious things,Unto one of princely place,Sprung, like them, from earthly kings?
Nay, but to an infant bornIn a lowly spot forlornYet around whose glorious faceShone a halo like the morn!
For a spirit unto eachSpake in no uncertain speech,Saying, “In a manger liesOne who God to man shall teach;One who shall the night o’erthrow,Bearing heaven with Him below,—Love that triumphs over hate,Peace and joy that conquer woe.”
So those monarchs, men of fame,Bowed before Him, blessed His name,Laid their offerings at His feet,Passed as swiftly as they came.
Stretch the years, a checkered chart,Since they played their deathless part,Yet to-day may we, like them,Giving, hold the Christ at heart.
The Wise Men wander across the wold,(O the Star in the sky!)Bearing their goodly gifts of gold.(How the low wind whispereth by!WhisperethOf birth, not death,With joy in its lifted cry!)The Wise Men come unto Bethlehem;(O the Star in the sky!)A star is the beacon that guideth them.(How the soft wind hasteneth by!HastenethThe while it saith,“O the Light of the World is nigh!”)The Wise Men kneel at the infant’s feet,(O the Star in the sky!)And the loving mother smileth sweet.(While the wind it hurrieth by,—HurriethAs it gladly saith,“O the Hope of the World is high!”)The Wise Men rise, and they go their ways;(O the Star in the sky!)And all this happened in the ancient days.(But the wind still gladdeneth by,—GladdenethAt the death of Death,That Life hath the victory!)
The Wise Men wander across the wold,(O the Star in the sky!)Bearing their goodly gifts of gold.(How the low wind whispereth by!WhisperethOf birth, not death,With joy in its lifted cry!)The Wise Men come unto Bethlehem;(O the Star in the sky!)A star is the beacon that guideth them.(How the soft wind hasteneth by!HastenethThe while it saith,“O the Light of the World is nigh!”)The Wise Men kneel at the infant’s feet,(O the Star in the sky!)And the loving mother smileth sweet.(While the wind it hurrieth by,—HurriethAs it gladly saith,“O the Hope of the World is high!”)The Wise Men rise, and they go their ways;(O the Star in the sky!)And all this happened in the ancient days.(But the wind still gladdeneth by,—GladdenethAt the death of Death,That Life hath the victory!)
The Wise Men wander across the wold,(O the Star in the sky!)Bearing their goodly gifts of gold.(How the low wind whispereth by!WhisperethOf birth, not death,With joy in its lifted cry!)
The Wise Men come unto Bethlehem;(O the Star in the sky!)A star is the beacon that guideth them.(How the soft wind hasteneth by!HastenethThe while it saith,“O the Light of the World is nigh!”)
The Wise Men kneel at the infant’s feet,(O the Star in the sky!)And the loving mother smileth sweet.(While the wind it hurrieth by,—HurriethAs it gladly saith,“O the Hope of the World is high!”)
The Wise Men rise, and they go their ways;(O the Star in the sky!)And all this happened in the ancient days.(But the wind still gladdeneth by,—GladdenethAt the death of Death,That Life hath the victory!)
Who cries ’tis folly to wreathe the bright holly?Who is it scoffs at the mistletoe bough?Marry, then, out on him! marry, then, flout on him!If there’s a time to be jolly, ’tis now!Berry-tide, cherry-tide, each is a merry tide,And there’s charm in the nutting, I vow!But none surpasses,—how say you, my lasses?—The time for up-hanging the mistletoe bough!Reason,—away with it! Men have grown gray with it,Pondering why and considering how;We have no part in it,—nay, and no heart in it!—Under the droop of the mistletoe bough!So, lads, your choices all! Lift, maids, your voices all!Love levels prince with the man at the plough.We’ll make our boast of it, we’ll make our toast of it,—Ne’er may it wither, the mistletoe bough!
Who cries ’tis folly to wreathe the bright holly?Who is it scoffs at the mistletoe bough?Marry, then, out on him! marry, then, flout on him!If there’s a time to be jolly, ’tis now!Berry-tide, cherry-tide, each is a merry tide,And there’s charm in the nutting, I vow!But none surpasses,—how say you, my lasses?—The time for up-hanging the mistletoe bough!Reason,—away with it! Men have grown gray with it,Pondering why and considering how;We have no part in it,—nay, and no heart in it!—Under the droop of the mistletoe bough!So, lads, your choices all! Lift, maids, your voices all!Love levels prince with the man at the plough.We’ll make our boast of it, we’ll make our toast of it,—Ne’er may it wither, the mistletoe bough!
Who cries ’tis folly to wreathe the bright holly?Who is it scoffs at the mistletoe bough?Marry, then, out on him! marry, then, flout on him!If there’s a time to be jolly, ’tis now!
Berry-tide, cherry-tide, each is a merry tide,And there’s charm in the nutting, I vow!But none surpasses,—how say you, my lasses?—The time for up-hanging the mistletoe bough!
Reason,—away with it! Men have grown gray with it,Pondering why and considering how;We have no part in it,—nay, and no heart in it!—Under the droop of the mistletoe bough!
So, lads, your choices all! Lift, maids, your voices all!Love levels prince with the man at the plough.We’ll make our boast of it, we’ll make our toast of it,—Ne’er may it wither, the mistletoe bough!
With blare of horn and holloa,Who is it forth doth fare?It is the Christmas HunterWho rides adown the air.Upon his wild steed, Sleipnir,He storms across the sky;And like the moan of oceanHis vanguard surges by.They are the Judas-hearted,—They are the souls of themThat spurned God’s own anointed,The Man of Bethlehem.For them nor peace nor joyanceAt this high tide of Yule,Since they are doomed to followThe Hunter’s iron rule.Rage fills his veins with riotWhen peals the Christmas mirth,For memory bears him backwardWhen he had power on earth.So mad he whirls his minionsBehind him fast and far,Without or pause or pity,From star to utmost star.The once almighty OdinWhom Christ hurled from his height,He is the Christmas HunterWho roams the voids of night.
With blare of horn and holloa,Who is it forth doth fare?It is the Christmas HunterWho rides adown the air.Upon his wild steed, Sleipnir,He storms across the sky;And like the moan of oceanHis vanguard surges by.They are the Judas-hearted,—They are the souls of themThat spurned God’s own anointed,The Man of Bethlehem.For them nor peace nor joyanceAt this high tide of Yule,Since they are doomed to followThe Hunter’s iron rule.Rage fills his veins with riotWhen peals the Christmas mirth,For memory bears him backwardWhen he had power on earth.So mad he whirls his minionsBehind him fast and far,Without or pause or pity,From star to utmost star.The once almighty OdinWhom Christ hurled from his height,He is the Christmas HunterWho roams the voids of night.
With blare of horn and holloa,Who is it forth doth fare?It is the Christmas HunterWho rides adown the air.
Upon his wild steed, Sleipnir,He storms across the sky;And like the moan of oceanHis vanguard surges by.
They are the Judas-hearted,—They are the souls of themThat spurned God’s own anointed,The Man of Bethlehem.
For them nor peace nor joyanceAt this high tide of Yule,Since they are doomed to followThe Hunter’s iron rule.
Rage fills his veins with riotWhen peals the Christmas mirth,For memory bears him backwardWhen he had power on earth.
So mad he whirls his minionsBehind him fast and far,Without or pause or pity,From star to utmost star.
The once almighty OdinWhom Christ hurled from his height,He is the Christmas HunterWho roams the voids of night.
O’er the wastes the crows are calling—Caw! Caw!In the hedges of the haw,Sparrows with their merry clatterCheep and chatter,—Naught’s the matter!Marry, marry! naught’s the matter!Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!All the waking world’s aglow!And the mirthful bells of ChristmasRing across the snow!Down the garden Colin’s calling—Mollie! Mollie!In the thickets of the hollyChoruses the hidden starling,Saucy darling!You’re behind her!Kiss her, kiss her, when you find her!Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!Who’s for worry, who’s for woe,When the wooing bells of ChristmasRing across the snow?
O’er the wastes the crows are calling—Caw! Caw!In the hedges of the haw,Sparrows with their merry clatterCheep and chatter,—Naught’s the matter!Marry, marry! naught’s the matter!Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!All the waking world’s aglow!And the mirthful bells of ChristmasRing across the snow!Down the garden Colin’s calling—Mollie! Mollie!In the thickets of the hollyChoruses the hidden starling,Saucy darling!You’re behind her!Kiss her, kiss her, when you find her!Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!Who’s for worry, who’s for woe,When the wooing bells of ChristmasRing across the snow?
O’er the wastes the crows are calling—Caw! Caw!In the hedges of the haw,Sparrows with their merry clatterCheep and chatter,—Naught’s the matter!Marry, marry! naught’s the matter!Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!All the waking world’s aglow!And the mirthful bells of ChristmasRing across the snow!
Down the garden Colin’s calling—Mollie! Mollie!In the thickets of the hollyChoruses the hidden starling,Saucy darling!You’re behind her!Kiss her, kiss her, when you find her!Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!Who’s for worry, who’s for woe,When the wooing bells of ChristmasRing across the snow?
Go seek her out, my rhyme,Her of the cruel heart,And with your softest chime,And with your blandest art,Plead that this merry timeMay see her frowns depart.And whisper, ah, so low!—(And mark ye if she sigh!)That sprays of mistletoeAre plucked to hang on high,That holly berries glow,That Christmas-tide is nigh.And if ye win one smile,O speed ye hither swift!From eyes cast down the whileThe aching gloom will lift,And in the orchard aisleWill flower the frozen drift.More I that ray will prizeThan pearls of orient birth;’Twill set the wintry skiesA-dazzle over earth;And love, in lilied guise,Will light the Christmas hearth.
Go seek her out, my rhyme,Her of the cruel heart,And with your softest chime,And with your blandest art,Plead that this merry timeMay see her frowns depart.And whisper, ah, so low!—(And mark ye if she sigh!)That sprays of mistletoeAre plucked to hang on high,That holly berries glow,That Christmas-tide is nigh.And if ye win one smile,O speed ye hither swift!From eyes cast down the whileThe aching gloom will lift,And in the orchard aisleWill flower the frozen drift.More I that ray will prizeThan pearls of orient birth;’Twill set the wintry skiesA-dazzle over earth;And love, in lilied guise,Will light the Christmas hearth.
Go seek her out, my rhyme,Her of the cruel heart,And with your softest chime,And with your blandest art,Plead that this merry timeMay see her frowns depart.
And whisper, ah, so low!—(And mark ye if she sigh!)That sprays of mistletoeAre plucked to hang on high,That holly berries glow,That Christmas-tide is nigh.
And if ye win one smile,O speed ye hither swift!From eyes cast down the whileThe aching gloom will lift,And in the orchard aisleWill flower the frozen drift.
More I that ray will prizeThan pearls of orient birth;’Twill set the wintry skiesA-dazzle over earth;And love, in lilied guise,Will light the Christmas hearth.
What means this waiting throng?Whence have these weary, way-worn wanderers come?Why rises, in strange tongues, the expectant hum,Like that tense under-songThe joyful Jordan voices in the springTill Hermon hearkens, leaning grandly down,And wearing still his shimmering snowy crown?Soon will these murmuring lips with ardor sing,And soon these lifted faces, wan or brown,Glow into worship that is rapturing.Back will be thrown the consecrated door,And then these feet, from many a distant shore,Be privileged to press the hallowed floor.Why have they come,—the hardy mountaineerFrom Lebanon’s cedars and their checkered shade?The merchant and the snowy-mantled maidWho hold great Nilus dear?Why have they come,—the men with restless eyesAnd pallid cheeks that tell of norland skies?Why have they come,—the Latin and the Greek?Do pilgrims thus this sanctuary seekBecause ’twas hereFor year on fiery yearThe red earth drankThe deluged blood of Paynim and of Frank?Or do they surge to seeThe antique symmetryOf springing arch and carven pillar fine,In this old holy house of Constantine?Ah, no! ah, no! To them the memoryOf war is not, and monarchs play no partIn any thought that stirs an eager heart.They have no eyes to seeA single graceful groining. What care theyIf here, upon a bygone Christmas-day,The King-crusader, Baldwin, took his crown!Or what to them the saint of blest renownIn yonder sepulchre, now crumbling clay!Their patient feet one precious spot would press,Their yearning eyes would lovingly caressThe time-dulled silver starSunk deep within the pavement, footfall-worn:“Here, of the Virgin Mary, Christ was born,”They read, these pilgrims who have plodded far.They read and pass and ponder. Few can seeThe tiny chapel and the dim-lit shrine,And feel no thrill, despite the mummery,Of something more divineWithin the breast than ever pulsed before.Then let us pilgrims beUpon this sacred day we all adore!Although our mortal feet touch not the floor,Although our mortal eyes may not behold,Our spirits may take flight,And with immortal sightStand where the prayerful wise-men stood of oldIn ecstasy of adoration, whenThey saw the Savior of the sons of men.
What means this waiting throng?Whence have these weary, way-worn wanderers come?Why rises, in strange tongues, the expectant hum,Like that tense under-songThe joyful Jordan voices in the springTill Hermon hearkens, leaning grandly down,And wearing still his shimmering snowy crown?Soon will these murmuring lips with ardor sing,And soon these lifted faces, wan or brown,Glow into worship that is rapturing.Back will be thrown the consecrated door,And then these feet, from many a distant shore,Be privileged to press the hallowed floor.Why have they come,—the hardy mountaineerFrom Lebanon’s cedars and their checkered shade?The merchant and the snowy-mantled maidWho hold great Nilus dear?Why have they come,—the men with restless eyesAnd pallid cheeks that tell of norland skies?Why have they come,—the Latin and the Greek?Do pilgrims thus this sanctuary seekBecause ’twas hereFor year on fiery yearThe red earth drankThe deluged blood of Paynim and of Frank?Or do they surge to seeThe antique symmetryOf springing arch and carven pillar fine,In this old holy house of Constantine?Ah, no! ah, no! To them the memoryOf war is not, and monarchs play no partIn any thought that stirs an eager heart.They have no eyes to seeA single graceful groining. What care theyIf here, upon a bygone Christmas-day,The King-crusader, Baldwin, took his crown!Or what to them the saint of blest renownIn yonder sepulchre, now crumbling clay!Their patient feet one precious spot would press,Their yearning eyes would lovingly caressThe time-dulled silver starSunk deep within the pavement, footfall-worn:“Here, of the Virgin Mary, Christ was born,”They read, these pilgrims who have plodded far.They read and pass and ponder. Few can seeThe tiny chapel and the dim-lit shrine,And feel no thrill, despite the mummery,Of something more divineWithin the breast than ever pulsed before.Then let us pilgrims beUpon this sacred day we all adore!Although our mortal feet touch not the floor,Although our mortal eyes may not behold,Our spirits may take flight,And with immortal sightStand where the prayerful wise-men stood of oldIn ecstasy of adoration, whenThey saw the Savior of the sons of men.
What means this waiting throng?Whence have these weary, way-worn wanderers come?Why rises, in strange tongues, the expectant hum,Like that tense under-songThe joyful Jordan voices in the springTill Hermon hearkens, leaning grandly down,And wearing still his shimmering snowy crown?Soon will these murmuring lips with ardor sing,And soon these lifted faces, wan or brown,Glow into worship that is rapturing.Back will be thrown the consecrated door,And then these feet, from many a distant shore,Be privileged to press the hallowed floor.
Why have they come,—the hardy mountaineerFrom Lebanon’s cedars and their checkered shade?The merchant and the snowy-mantled maidWho hold great Nilus dear?Why have they come,—the men with restless eyesAnd pallid cheeks that tell of norland skies?Why have they come,—the Latin and the Greek?Do pilgrims thus this sanctuary seekBecause ’twas hereFor year on fiery yearThe red earth drankThe deluged blood of Paynim and of Frank?Or do they surge to seeThe antique symmetryOf springing arch and carven pillar fine,In this old holy house of Constantine?
Ah, no! ah, no! To them the memoryOf war is not, and monarchs play no partIn any thought that stirs an eager heart.They have no eyes to seeA single graceful groining. What care theyIf here, upon a bygone Christmas-day,The King-crusader, Baldwin, took his crown!Or what to them the saint of blest renownIn yonder sepulchre, now crumbling clay!Their patient feet one precious spot would press,Their yearning eyes would lovingly caressThe time-dulled silver starSunk deep within the pavement, footfall-worn:“Here, of the Virgin Mary, Christ was born,”They read, these pilgrims who have plodded far.They read and pass and ponder. Few can seeThe tiny chapel and the dim-lit shrine,And feel no thrill, despite the mummery,Of something more divineWithin the breast than ever pulsed before.Then let us pilgrims beUpon this sacred day we all adore!Although our mortal feet touch not the floor,Although our mortal eyes may not behold,Our spirits may take flight,And with immortal sightStand where the prayerful wise-men stood of oldIn ecstasy of adoration, whenThey saw the Savior of the sons of men.
Hale the Yule-log in!Heap the fagots high!With a merry dinRouse old Revelry!Cry “Noel! Noel!”Till the rafters ring,And the gleeful bellPeals its answering!Brim the Christmas cupFrom the wassail-bowl,Now the flame leaps upWith its ruddy soul!In the glowing blazeHow the dancers spin!Deftest in the maze,Nimble Harlequin!Grim Snapdragon comesWith his mimic ire,And his feast of plumsSmothered in the fire.O the days of mirth,And the nights akin!Heap the Christmas hearth;Hale the Yule-log in!
Hale the Yule-log in!Heap the fagots high!With a merry dinRouse old Revelry!Cry “Noel! Noel!”Till the rafters ring,And the gleeful bellPeals its answering!Brim the Christmas cupFrom the wassail-bowl,Now the flame leaps upWith its ruddy soul!In the glowing blazeHow the dancers spin!Deftest in the maze,Nimble Harlequin!Grim Snapdragon comesWith his mimic ire,And his feast of plumsSmothered in the fire.O the days of mirth,And the nights akin!Heap the Christmas hearth;Hale the Yule-log in!
Hale the Yule-log in!Heap the fagots high!With a merry dinRouse old Revelry!Cry “Noel! Noel!”Till the rafters ring,And the gleeful bellPeals its answering!
Brim the Christmas cupFrom the wassail-bowl,Now the flame leaps upWith its ruddy soul!In the glowing blazeHow the dancers spin!Deftest in the maze,Nimble Harlequin!
Grim Snapdragon comesWith his mimic ire,And his feast of plumsSmothered in the fire.O the days of mirth,And the nights akin!Heap the Christmas hearth;Hale the Yule-log in!
“It’s hey! my merry huntsman,With hound and hawk and horn,Where hie ye to the huntingThis crispy Christmas morn?”“It’s ho! mine ancient gossip,To Wildmere wood I go,To seek beneath the boughs of YuleThe roebuck and the roe.”“It’s ha! my merry huntsman,A cunning tongue have ye;With deer ye keep no Christmas trystBeneath the greenwood-tree.”“It’s hist! mine ancient gossip,I prithee, speak me low,Lest they that love me not should hearTo Wildmere wood I go.”“It’s list! my merry huntsman,They wot thy coming well,And wait thee where the pathway dipsTo cross the birken dell.”“It’s good! mine ancient gossip,How many may there beBetwixt me and my Christmas trystBeneath the greenwood-tree?”“It’s hark! my merry huntsman,There’s Bernard of the Bow,Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,And Giles of Clariveaux;“There’s Giles, my merry huntsman,The wiliest of men,Brother in blood, though black his heart,To one whose name ye ken.”“Gramercy! ancient gossip,And shall these stay my foot?Then may the House of HardigraveBe withered to the root!”He gave his page his hound in leash,His hawk and eke his horn,And gaily did he onward rideBeneath the Christmas morn.And now the birken dell was won,And now the shallow ford,And now he heard the scabbard ringIts answer to the sword.And forth from out the coppice deepRode Bernard of the Bow,Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,And Giles of Clariveaux.Small parley was there then, God wot,But bickering of steel,And down clashed Bernard of the BowBeneath his charger’s heel.And Egbert of the Crooked ArmReeled sidewise as he knewThe sharp bite of a falchion’s pointHis stricken harness through.Then clear rang out the huntsman’s shout,Right merrily cried he,“God’s with the son of HardigraveWho lovesLa Belle Marie!”Oh, deep cursed Giles of ClariveauxTo hear his sister’s name,While ’neath his vizor burned his eyesLike orbs of evil flame!“Have at thee, Hardigrave!” he hissed,“This riding thou shalt rue!”And round them like a fiery mistThe spiteful sparks outflew.’Twas parry, cut and countercut,And fiercer-faced the whileGrew treacherous Giles of ClariveauxTo mark the huntsman’s smile.And seeing he was sore beset,That urgent grew his need,He aimed a caitiff’s coward blowTo maim his foeman’s steed.But vain that cruel, craven thrust,For whiles he strove to reinThe shoulder of his sword-armWas riven half in twain.* * * * *O starling in the thicket, seeWhere, eyes with love aglow,Adown the forest pathway goesThe rose of Clariveaux!And hearken, O ye holly boughs!And, O ye larches, list!It is the song of one who ridesTo keep his Christmas tryst.
“It’s hey! my merry huntsman,With hound and hawk and horn,Where hie ye to the huntingThis crispy Christmas morn?”“It’s ho! mine ancient gossip,To Wildmere wood I go,To seek beneath the boughs of YuleThe roebuck and the roe.”“It’s ha! my merry huntsman,A cunning tongue have ye;With deer ye keep no Christmas trystBeneath the greenwood-tree.”“It’s hist! mine ancient gossip,I prithee, speak me low,Lest they that love me not should hearTo Wildmere wood I go.”“It’s list! my merry huntsman,They wot thy coming well,And wait thee where the pathway dipsTo cross the birken dell.”“It’s good! mine ancient gossip,How many may there beBetwixt me and my Christmas trystBeneath the greenwood-tree?”“It’s hark! my merry huntsman,There’s Bernard of the Bow,Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,And Giles of Clariveaux;“There’s Giles, my merry huntsman,The wiliest of men,Brother in blood, though black his heart,To one whose name ye ken.”“Gramercy! ancient gossip,And shall these stay my foot?Then may the House of HardigraveBe withered to the root!”He gave his page his hound in leash,His hawk and eke his horn,And gaily did he onward rideBeneath the Christmas morn.And now the birken dell was won,And now the shallow ford,And now he heard the scabbard ringIts answer to the sword.And forth from out the coppice deepRode Bernard of the Bow,Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,And Giles of Clariveaux.Small parley was there then, God wot,But bickering of steel,And down clashed Bernard of the BowBeneath his charger’s heel.And Egbert of the Crooked ArmReeled sidewise as he knewThe sharp bite of a falchion’s pointHis stricken harness through.Then clear rang out the huntsman’s shout,Right merrily cried he,“God’s with the son of HardigraveWho lovesLa Belle Marie!”Oh, deep cursed Giles of ClariveauxTo hear his sister’s name,While ’neath his vizor burned his eyesLike orbs of evil flame!“Have at thee, Hardigrave!” he hissed,“This riding thou shalt rue!”And round them like a fiery mistThe spiteful sparks outflew.’Twas parry, cut and countercut,And fiercer-faced the whileGrew treacherous Giles of ClariveauxTo mark the huntsman’s smile.And seeing he was sore beset,That urgent grew his need,He aimed a caitiff’s coward blowTo maim his foeman’s steed.But vain that cruel, craven thrust,For whiles he strove to reinThe shoulder of his sword-armWas riven half in twain.* * * * *O starling in the thicket, seeWhere, eyes with love aglow,Adown the forest pathway goesThe rose of Clariveaux!And hearken, O ye holly boughs!And, O ye larches, list!It is the song of one who ridesTo keep his Christmas tryst.
“It’s hey! my merry huntsman,With hound and hawk and horn,Where hie ye to the huntingThis crispy Christmas morn?”
“It’s ho! mine ancient gossip,To Wildmere wood I go,To seek beneath the boughs of YuleThe roebuck and the roe.”
“It’s ha! my merry huntsman,A cunning tongue have ye;With deer ye keep no Christmas trystBeneath the greenwood-tree.”
“It’s hist! mine ancient gossip,I prithee, speak me low,Lest they that love me not should hearTo Wildmere wood I go.”
“It’s list! my merry huntsman,They wot thy coming well,And wait thee where the pathway dipsTo cross the birken dell.”
“It’s good! mine ancient gossip,How many may there beBetwixt me and my Christmas trystBeneath the greenwood-tree?”
“It’s hark! my merry huntsman,There’s Bernard of the Bow,Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,And Giles of Clariveaux;
“There’s Giles, my merry huntsman,The wiliest of men,Brother in blood, though black his heart,To one whose name ye ken.”
“Gramercy! ancient gossip,And shall these stay my foot?Then may the House of HardigraveBe withered to the root!”
He gave his page his hound in leash,His hawk and eke his horn,And gaily did he onward rideBeneath the Christmas morn.
And now the birken dell was won,And now the shallow ford,And now he heard the scabbard ringIts answer to the sword.
And forth from out the coppice deepRode Bernard of the Bow,Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,And Giles of Clariveaux.
Small parley was there then, God wot,But bickering of steel,And down clashed Bernard of the BowBeneath his charger’s heel.
And Egbert of the Crooked ArmReeled sidewise as he knewThe sharp bite of a falchion’s pointHis stricken harness through.
Then clear rang out the huntsman’s shout,Right merrily cried he,“God’s with the son of HardigraveWho lovesLa Belle Marie!”
Oh, deep cursed Giles of ClariveauxTo hear his sister’s name,While ’neath his vizor burned his eyesLike orbs of evil flame!
“Have at thee, Hardigrave!” he hissed,“This riding thou shalt rue!”And round them like a fiery mistThe spiteful sparks outflew.
’Twas parry, cut and countercut,And fiercer-faced the whileGrew treacherous Giles of ClariveauxTo mark the huntsman’s smile.
And seeing he was sore beset,That urgent grew his need,He aimed a caitiff’s coward blowTo maim his foeman’s steed.
But vain that cruel, craven thrust,For whiles he strove to reinThe shoulder of his sword-armWas riven half in twain.* * * * *O starling in the thicket, seeWhere, eyes with love aglow,Adown the forest pathway goesThe rose of Clariveaux!
And hearken, O ye holly boughs!And, O ye larches, list!It is the song of one who ridesTo keep his Christmas tryst.
I hear the shrilling hautboys sound,The thrilling drums take up the din,And through the doorway’s gaping boundA lusty, mincing manikinBears, garlanded, the boar’s head in.The great bells clamor in the towerTheir jubilation. Down the hallMirth bursts into a brilliant flowerOf quip and toast and madrigal;“Noel! Noel! Noel!” cry all.And yet joy seems a thing foredoneForevermore in every placeBeneath the red rays of the sun;—What is Christ’s mass that wrought man graceWithout the favor of love’s face!
I hear the shrilling hautboys sound,The thrilling drums take up the din,And through the doorway’s gaping boundA lusty, mincing manikinBears, garlanded, the boar’s head in.The great bells clamor in the towerTheir jubilation. Down the hallMirth bursts into a brilliant flowerOf quip and toast and madrigal;“Noel! Noel! Noel!” cry all.And yet joy seems a thing foredoneForevermore in every placeBeneath the red rays of the sun;—What is Christ’s mass that wrought man graceWithout the favor of love’s face!
I hear the shrilling hautboys sound,The thrilling drums take up the din,And through the doorway’s gaping boundA lusty, mincing manikinBears, garlanded, the boar’s head in.
The great bells clamor in the towerTheir jubilation. Down the hallMirth bursts into a brilliant flowerOf quip and toast and madrigal;“Noel! Noel! Noel!” cry all.
And yet joy seems a thing foredoneForevermore in every placeBeneath the red rays of the sun;—What is Christ’s mass that wrought man graceWithout the favor of love’s face!
“The flax upon your distaffIs yellow as your hair,But why, on Christmas even,Thus spin you, maiden fair?“The joy-bells in the steeplesAre ringing clear and wide;O stop the whirring spindle,And put the flax aside!”“Nay, but I may not, master,Although I weary be,Lest through the open shutterShould peer the White Ladye;“And find my treadle idle,My flax in tangled fold,And on the merry morrowForget her gift of gold.“For to the slothful virginShe causeth sorrowing,But to the thrifty maidenA blessing she doth bring!”A soft touch at the shutter,—A face divine to see!It is the fairy spinner,It is the White Ladye!
“The flax upon your distaffIs yellow as your hair,But why, on Christmas even,Thus spin you, maiden fair?“The joy-bells in the steeplesAre ringing clear and wide;O stop the whirring spindle,And put the flax aside!”“Nay, but I may not, master,Although I weary be,Lest through the open shutterShould peer the White Ladye;“And find my treadle idle,My flax in tangled fold,And on the merry morrowForget her gift of gold.“For to the slothful virginShe causeth sorrowing,But to the thrifty maidenA blessing she doth bring!”A soft touch at the shutter,—A face divine to see!It is the fairy spinner,It is the White Ladye!
“The flax upon your distaffIs yellow as your hair,But why, on Christmas even,Thus spin you, maiden fair?
“The joy-bells in the steeplesAre ringing clear and wide;O stop the whirring spindle,And put the flax aside!”
“Nay, but I may not, master,Although I weary be,Lest through the open shutterShould peer the White Ladye;
“And find my treadle idle,My flax in tangled fold,And on the merry morrowForget her gift of gold.
“For to the slothful virginShe causeth sorrowing,But to the thrifty maidenA blessing she doth bring!”
A soft touch at the shutter,—A face divine to see!It is the fairy spinner,It is the White Ladye!
Adown the ways of winter,Above the vasts of snow,With woven flame their sandals shod,Through airy wastes by paths untrod,The wizard people go.By day their feats are hidden,But night beholds their mirth,When in the abysses of the airTheir sorceries they flaunt and flareAbove a wondering earth.In vain the hilltops hearken,Their lips no sound reveal;But ever on, from arc to arc,Across the spangled depths of darkTheir pennons whirl and wheel.Why come they? Who can answer?Whence go they? Who can tell?Flaming and fading down the night,A mystery, a dream-delight,A splendor and a spell!Such are the wizard people,The brethren of the pole;And though man long has sought to gainTheir secret, suns shall wax and waneEre he shall read their soul!
Adown the ways of winter,Above the vasts of snow,With woven flame their sandals shod,Through airy wastes by paths untrod,The wizard people go.By day their feats are hidden,But night beholds their mirth,When in the abysses of the airTheir sorceries they flaunt and flareAbove a wondering earth.In vain the hilltops hearken,Their lips no sound reveal;But ever on, from arc to arc,Across the spangled depths of darkTheir pennons whirl and wheel.Why come they? Who can answer?Whence go they? Who can tell?Flaming and fading down the night,A mystery, a dream-delight,A splendor and a spell!Such are the wizard people,The brethren of the pole;And though man long has sought to gainTheir secret, suns shall wax and waneEre he shall read their soul!
Adown the ways of winter,Above the vasts of snow,With woven flame their sandals shod,Through airy wastes by paths untrod,The wizard people go.
By day their feats are hidden,But night beholds their mirth,When in the abysses of the airTheir sorceries they flaunt and flareAbove a wondering earth.
In vain the hilltops hearken,Their lips no sound reveal;But ever on, from arc to arc,Across the spangled depths of darkTheir pennons whirl and wheel.
Why come they? Who can answer?Whence go they? Who can tell?Flaming and fading down the night,A mystery, a dream-delight,A splendor and a spell!
Such are the wizard people,The brethren of the pole;And though man long has sought to gainTheir secret, suns shall wax and waneEre he shall read their soul!
Care is but a broken bubble,Trill the carol, troll the catch!Sooth we’ll cry, “A truce to trouble!”Mirth and mistletoe shall match!Happy folly! we’ll be jolly!Who’d be melancholy now?With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”Polly hangs the holly bough.Laughter lurking in the eye, sir,Pleasure foots it frisk and free;He who frowns or looks awry, sir,Faith, a witless wight is he!Merry folly! what a volleyGreets the hanging of the bough!With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”Who’d be melancholy now?
Care is but a broken bubble,Trill the carol, troll the catch!Sooth we’ll cry, “A truce to trouble!”Mirth and mistletoe shall match!Happy folly! we’ll be jolly!Who’d be melancholy now?With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”Polly hangs the holly bough.Laughter lurking in the eye, sir,Pleasure foots it frisk and free;He who frowns or looks awry, sir,Faith, a witless wight is he!Merry folly! what a volleyGreets the hanging of the bough!With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”Who’d be melancholy now?
Care is but a broken bubble,Trill the carol, troll the catch!Sooth we’ll cry, “A truce to trouble!”Mirth and mistletoe shall match!
Happy folly! we’ll be jolly!Who’d be melancholy now?With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”Polly hangs the holly bough.
Laughter lurking in the eye, sir,Pleasure foots it frisk and free;He who frowns or looks awry, sir,Faith, a witless wight is he!
Merry folly! what a volleyGreets the hanging of the bough!With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”Who’d be melancholy now?
Bright ’neath the Syrian sun, dim ’neath the Syrian star,Thus lieth Galilee’s sea, sapphirine lake Gennesar;Girdled by mountains that range purple and proud to their crests,Bearing the burden of dreams,—glamour of eld,—on their breasts.Just one white glint of a sail dotting the brooding expanse;Beaches that sparkle and gleam, ripples that darkle and dance;Grandeur and beauty and peace welded year-long into one,Under the Syrian star, under the Syrian sun!And over all and through all memories sweet of His nameKindling the past with their light, touching the future with flame!
Bright ’neath the Syrian sun, dim ’neath the Syrian star,Thus lieth Galilee’s sea, sapphirine lake Gennesar;Girdled by mountains that range purple and proud to their crests,Bearing the burden of dreams,—glamour of eld,—on their breasts.Just one white glint of a sail dotting the brooding expanse;Beaches that sparkle and gleam, ripples that darkle and dance;Grandeur and beauty and peace welded year-long into one,Under the Syrian star, under the Syrian sun!And over all and through all memories sweet of His nameKindling the past with their light, touching the future with flame!
Bright ’neath the Syrian sun, dim ’neath the Syrian star,Thus lieth Galilee’s sea, sapphirine lake Gennesar;
Girdled by mountains that range purple and proud to their crests,Bearing the burden of dreams,—glamour of eld,—on their breasts.
Just one white glint of a sail dotting the brooding expanse;Beaches that sparkle and gleam, ripples that darkle and dance;
Grandeur and beauty and peace welded year-long into one,Under the Syrian star, under the Syrian sun!
And over all and through all memories sweet of His nameKindling the past with their light, touching the future with flame!
Whene’er at evening on the pictured wallI watch the flickering firelight rise and fall,From out the shifting shadow-vistas comeThe forms of those who marched to martyrdom,—Unflinching souls no agony could tame,A martyr wraith for every tongue of flame!
Whene’er at evening on the pictured wallI watch the flickering firelight rise and fall,From out the shifting shadow-vistas comeThe forms of those who marched to martyrdom,—Unflinching souls no agony could tame,A martyr wraith for every tongue of flame!
Whene’er at evening on the pictured wallI watch the flickering firelight rise and fall,From out the shifting shadow-vistas comeThe forms of those who marched to martyrdom,—Unflinching souls no agony could tame,A martyr wraith for every tongue of flame!
Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,Irradiant with all rainbow lights,—Shimmering, shifting opal whites,The June-time rose’s palest fire,The sunset’s most translucent gold,—Delicate as a precious gemShaped for a lover’s heart’s desire,Glowing as morn, yet virgin cold!Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,Thus I read you, bending aboveYour sheen, more fair than the breast of a dove;—The white is the Mother without a stain;And the blended hues, the fire and the gold,They stand for Him who for diademHad a crown of thorns, and was basely slain,—The Son of God clad in mortal mould!
Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,Irradiant with all rainbow lights,—Shimmering, shifting opal whites,The June-time rose’s palest fire,The sunset’s most translucent gold,—Delicate as a precious gemShaped for a lover’s heart’s desire,Glowing as morn, yet virgin cold!Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,Thus I read you, bending aboveYour sheen, more fair than the breast of a dove;—The white is the Mother without a stain;And the blended hues, the fire and the gold,They stand for Him who for diademHad a crown of thorns, and was basely slain,—The Son of God clad in mortal mould!
Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,Irradiant with all rainbow lights,—Shimmering, shifting opal whites,The June-time rose’s palest fire,The sunset’s most translucent gold,—Delicate as a precious gemShaped for a lover’s heart’s desire,Glowing as morn, yet virgin cold!
Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,Thus I read you, bending aboveYour sheen, more fair than the breast of a dove;—The white is the Mother without a stain;And the blended hues, the fire and the gold,They stand for Him who for diademHad a crown of thorns, and was basely slain,—The Son of God clad in mortal mould!
By wide gray orchards girdled,And cloistered deep in vines,Remote stood ancient ArdoAmid the Apennines.Below her banded belfriesThat loomed above the landFor weeks gaunt Plague and FamineHad walked with linkèd hand.Until, when neared the Yule-tide,On pale lips swooned the prayer,And only sounds of wailingSwept down the bitter air.No heart had any ringerTo sound the joyful bells;The soaring campanilePealed naught but burial knells.So when the Christmas sunlightScattered the chill white hazeThe sorely scourgèd peopleWere smitten with amazeHearing from San Stefano,—A spire and shrine forlorn,—A glorious jubilateSalute the startled morn.Fast flocked the folk, and wonderSwelled high that dawning hour,For unseen hands were swingingThe bells within the tower.And ’twixt their rhythmic chiming,Word upon precious word,A vibrant voice of promiseIn solemn wise was heard;“This day,” it cried, “my people,The cruel curse shall cease,And there shall fall upon youMy benison of peace!”When failed the silvery bell-notesTill arch and aisle were still,’Twas found that all in ArdoWere healed of every ill.And now, as Christmas morningBreaks over street and squareThe bells of San StefanoRing out upon the air;And still the gathered peopleLift praise with glad accordUnto the One almightyThat was their fathers’ Lord.
By wide gray orchards girdled,And cloistered deep in vines,Remote stood ancient ArdoAmid the Apennines.Below her banded belfriesThat loomed above the landFor weeks gaunt Plague and FamineHad walked with linkèd hand.Until, when neared the Yule-tide,On pale lips swooned the prayer,And only sounds of wailingSwept down the bitter air.No heart had any ringerTo sound the joyful bells;The soaring campanilePealed naught but burial knells.So when the Christmas sunlightScattered the chill white hazeThe sorely scourgèd peopleWere smitten with amazeHearing from San Stefano,—A spire and shrine forlorn,—A glorious jubilateSalute the startled morn.Fast flocked the folk, and wonderSwelled high that dawning hour,For unseen hands were swingingThe bells within the tower.And ’twixt their rhythmic chiming,Word upon precious word,A vibrant voice of promiseIn solemn wise was heard;“This day,” it cried, “my people,The cruel curse shall cease,And there shall fall upon youMy benison of peace!”When failed the silvery bell-notesTill arch and aisle were still,’Twas found that all in ArdoWere healed of every ill.And now, as Christmas morningBreaks over street and squareThe bells of San StefanoRing out upon the air;And still the gathered peopleLift praise with glad accordUnto the One almightyThat was their fathers’ Lord.
By wide gray orchards girdled,And cloistered deep in vines,Remote stood ancient ArdoAmid the Apennines.
Below her banded belfriesThat loomed above the landFor weeks gaunt Plague and FamineHad walked with linkèd hand.
Until, when neared the Yule-tide,On pale lips swooned the prayer,And only sounds of wailingSwept down the bitter air.
No heart had any ringerTo sound the joyful bells;The soaring campanilePealed naught but burial knells.
So when the Christmas sunlightScattered the chill white hazeThe sorely scourgèd peopleWere smitten with amaze
Hearing from San Stefano,—A spire and shrine forlorn,—A glorious jubilateSalute the startled morn.
Fast flocked the folk, and wonderSwelled high that dawning hour,For unseen hands were swingingThe bells within the tower.
And ’twixt their rhythmic chiming,Word upon precious word,A vibrant voice of promiseIn solemn wise was heard;
“This day,” it cried, “my people,The cruel curse shall cease,And there shall fall upon youMy benison of peace!”
When failed the silvery bell-notesTill arch and aisle were still,’Twas found that all in ArdoWere healed of every ill.
And now, as Christmas morningBreaks over street and squareThe bells of San StefanoRing out upon the air;
And still the gathered peopleLift praise with glad accordUnto the One almightyThat was their fathers’ Lord.