Ah, no! ah, no! To them the memory
Of war is not, and monarchs play no part
In any thought that stirs an eager heart.
They have no eyes to see
A single graceful groining. What care they
If here, upon a bygone Christmas-day,
The King-crusader, Baldwin, took his crown!
Or what to them the saint of blest renown
In yonder sepulchre, now crumbling clay!
Their patient feet one precious spot would press,
Their yearning eyes would lovingly caress
The time-dulled silver star
Sunk 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 see
The tiny chapel and the dim-lit shrine,
And feel no thrill, despite the mummery,
Of something more divine
Within the breast than ever pulsed before.
Then let us pilgrims be
Upon 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 sight
Stand where the prayerful wise-men stood of old
In ecstasy of adoration, when
They saw the Savior of the sons of men.
The Yule-Log
Hale the Yule-log in!
Heap the fagots high!
With a merry din
Rouse old Revelry!
Cry “Noel! Noel!”
Till the rafters ring,
And the gleeful bell
Peals its answering!
Brim the Christmas cup
From the wassail-bowl,
Now the flame leaps up
With its ruddy soul!
In the glowing blaze
How the dancers spin!
Deftest in the maze,
Nimble Harlequin!
Grim Snapdragon comes
With his mimic ire,
And his feast of plums
Smothered in the fire.
O the days of mirth,
And the nights akin!
Heap the Christmas hearth;
Hale the Yule-log in!
Ballad of the Christmas Tryst
“It’s hey! my merry huntsman,
With hound and hawk and horn,
Where hie ye to the hunting
This crispy Christmas morn?”
“It’s ho! mine ancient gossip,
To Wildmere wood I go,
To seek beneath the boughs of Yule
The roebuck and the roe.”
“It’s ha! my merry huntsman,
A cunning tongue have ye;
With deer ye keep no Christmas tryst
Beneath the greenwood-tree.”
“It’s hist! mine ancient gossip,
I prithee, speak me low,
Lest they that love me not should hear
To Wildmere wood I go.”