How will God send the Comforter? Thou knowest not, nor I! His ways are countless as the stars His hand hath hung on high. His roses bring their fragrant balm, His twilight hush its peace, Morning its splendor, night its calm, To give thy pain surcease!
SANTA CLAUS
A voice from out of the northern sky: “On the wings of the limitless winds I fly, Swifter than thought over mountain and vale, City and moorland, desert and dale! From the north to the south, from the east to the west, I hasten regardless of slumber or rest; Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fast As I on the wings of the wintry blast!
The wondering stars look out to see Who he that flieth so fast may be, And their bright eyes follow my earthward track By the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack. For I have treasures for high and for low: Rubies that burn like the sunset glow; Diamond rays for the crownèd queen; For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen.
I enter the castle with noiseless feet— The air is silent and soft and sweet; And I lavish my beautiful tokens there— Fairings to make the fair more fair! I enter the cottage of want and woe— The candle is out, and the fire burns low; But the sleepers smile in a happy dream As I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam.
There’s never a home so low, no doubt, But I in my flight can find it out; Nor a hut so hidden but I can see The shadow cast by the lone roof-tree! There’s never a home so proud and high That I am constrained to pass it by, Nor a heart so happy it may not be Happier still when blessed by me!
What is my name? Ah, who can tell, Though in every land ’tis a magic spell! Men call me that, and they call me this; Yet the different names are the same, I wis! Gift-bearer to all the world am I, Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly; But the name I bear in the courts above, My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”
THE ARMORER’S ERRAND
A BALLAD OF 1775
Where the far skies soared clear and bright From mountain height to mountain height, In the heart of a forest old and gray, Castleton slept one Sabbath day— Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May, Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.
But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive; Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!” Hark to the sound of the fife and drum! For up from the south two hundred men— Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen, While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!” Swept into the town with a martial tread, Ethan Allen marching ahead!