O’er the wastes the crows are calling—
Caw! Caw!
In the hedges of the haw,
Sparrows with their merry clatter
Cheep 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 Christmas
Ring across the snow!
Down the garden Colin’s calling—
Mollie! Mollie!
In the thickets of the holly
Choruses 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 Christmas
Ring across the snow?
A Lover to His Rhyme
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 time
May see her frowns depart.
And whisper, ah, so low!—
(And mark ye if she sigh!)
That sprays of mistletoe
Are 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 while
The aching gloom will lift,
And in the orchard aisle
Will flower the frozen drift.
More I that ray will prize
Than pearls of orient birth;
’Twill set the wintry skies
A-dazzle over earth;
And love, in lilied guise,
Will light the Christmas hearth.
The Christmas Pilgrimage
(Bethlehem)
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-song
The joyful Jordan voices in the spring
Till 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 mountaineer
From Lebanon’s cedars and their checkered shade?
The merchant and the snowy-mantled maid
Who hold great Nilus dear?
Why have they come,—the men with restless eyes
And pallid cheeks that tell of norland skies?
Why have they come,—the Latin and the Greek?
Do pilgrims thus this sanctuary seek
Because ’twas here
For year on fiery year
The red earth drank
The deluged blood of Paynim and of Frank?
Or do they surge to see
The antique symmetry
Of springing arch and carven pillar fine,
In this old holy house of Constantine?