II.
The skies are white with soft moonlight;
In Christian lands the lamps burn bright,
In splendor gleaming from the walls
Of parlors and of festive halls;
Or yet, amid some snow-white choir,
Sweet maidens sing the world's desire,
Till, answering in low refrain,
The people all repeat the strain
Of "peace on earth, to men good-will,"
When sudden all the hall is still.
Then tender music, soft and low,
Heavenward seems to float and flow,
But—mid these glittering lights, O see
The stately form of greenwood tree!
Whose graceful arms are drooping wide
As grieving this fair Christmastide.
III.
The hills are white with lovely light,
And everywhere the stars burn bright
In splendor gleaming on the wood,
Where once, in loyal familyhood,
The evergreens together stood,
But—now no vespers, sweet or low,
In happy measures upward flow,
For there—by Heaven's lights, O see
The absence of the greenwood tree!
Whose noble form once waiving wide,
This melancholy waste did hide.
IV.
Yet here and there a lonely tree
Still sounds a mournful melody,
And answering, in low refrain,
The winds repeat the solemn strain,
Until the hills conscious of harm,
Awaken in a wild alarm,
Until, with trumpets to the sky,
They echo up to Heaven the cry:—
Ye Forests, rouse—shake off thy shroud,
And sound a protest, long and loud;
Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chide
This carelessness of Christmastide—
And Man, thou prodigal of Time,
Bestir thyself—and heed my rhyme,
And curb this crime of Christmastime.