O! Gather in the Old Yule Log.
O! gather in the old yule log,
No longer green and strong
In the forest of his ancestors,
Cheering the storm-blast’s song;
Nor bending his oaken branches
In rev’rence to the gale,
Whilst echoing forth the forest glee
So hearty and so hale.
O! gather in the old yule log,
Whose lineage and renown
Bespeak for him a welcoming—
Such as is only known
In England’s halls and palaces;
So trim him fair and neat,
And wheel him to the old recess,
Where he shall glow with heat.
O! gather in the old yule log,
The hall-door open wide,
And cheer his venerable corpse,
The forest’s latest pride:
Yet whilst he’s passing—ponder ye
O’er God’s majestic ways;
For in him, gently gliding ’long,
There counts two centuries!
O! gather in the old yule log,
And range him on the hearth;
No subject in the woodland glen
Can tell of better birth.
Where is the heart not grieving (say!)
To part with this old friend,
That’s doomed to blazon here to-night,—
Two hundred years to end?
O! gather in the old yule log,
Who rear’d his branches high
In the sunbeams of a summer’s eve,—
Heav’n’s radiant canopy:
While waving in th’ horizon, then,
Ah! then he could proclaim
His anger to the whirlwind; but,
Alas! it conquer’d him.
O! gather in the old yule log;—
Those leaves are long since fled
Which last adorn’d his stately limbs,
And crown’d his tow’ring head:—
O! could we sing of “glory still
Encircling his old frame;”
But no!—the only thing survives
Is his proud ancient name.
