The merry dance, the lavish feast,
The cheery welcome, all are o'er:
The music of the viol ceased,
The gleesome ring around the floor.
No glad communion greets the hour,
That welcomes in a Saviour's birth,
And Christmas, to a hostile power,
Yields all the sway that made its mirth.
III.
The Church, like some deserted bride,
In trembling, at the Altar waits,
While, raging fierce on every side,
The foe is thundering at her gates.
No ivy green, nor glittering leaves,
Nor crimson berries, deck her walls:
But blood, red dripping from her eaves,
Along the sacred pavement falls.
IV.
Her silver bells no longer chime
In summons to her sacred home;
Nor holy song at matin prime,
Proclaims the God within the dome.
Nor do the fireside's happy bands
Assemble fond, with greetings dear,
While Patriarch Christmas spreads his hands
To glad with gifts and crown with cheer.
V.
In place of that beloved form,
Benignant, bland, and blessing all,
Comes one begirt with fire and storm,
The raging shell, the hissing ball!
Type of the Prince of Peace, no more,
Evoked by those who bear His name,
THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore,
Now hurls around Satanic flame.
VI.
In hate,--evoked by kindred lands,
But late beslavering with caress,
Lo, Moloch, dripping crimson, stands,
And curses where he cannot bless.
He wings the bolt and hurls the spear,
A demon loosed, that rends in rage,
Sends havoc through the homes most dear,
And butchers youth and tramples age!