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Title: Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide

Author: Clinton Scollard

Release Date: December 27, 2021 [EBook #67022]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide

SECOND EDITION ENLARGED

Lyrics & Legends

of Christmas-Tide

CLINTON SCOLLARD

CLINTON, NEW YORK:

GEORGE WILLIAM BROWNING

M DCCCC VI

Copyrighted 1904 by Clinton Scollard

First Edition, October, 1904

Second Edition, enlarged, December, 1905

CONTENTS

A Bell

7

Christmas Elves

8

The Christmas Angel

9

Nazareth Town

11

A Christmas Masque

13

A Song for Christmas Morning

15

The Christmas Minstrels

16

Twelfth Night Song

17

Yule at Thengelfor

18

A Yule-Tide Carol

21

Ballad of the Eve of Yule

22

The Hanging of the Holly

25

The Maid of Bethlehem

26

The Christmas Almsman

28

The Bells of Christmas

30

Christmas Ingle Song

31

Neil MacDonald

32

The Star of Bethlehem

34

Pierol’s Christmas

35

Song for the Eve of Yule

37

The Three Kings

38

The Wise Men

40

A Yule Song

42

The Christmas Hunter

43

A Christmas Song

45

A Lover to His Rhyme

46

The Christmas Pilgrimage

47

The Yule-Log

50

Ballad of the Christmas Tryst

51

A Knight’s Christmas

55

The White Ladye

56

The Wizard People

57

Holly Song

59

Gennesar

60

Firelight

61

Mother of Pearl

62

The Bells of Ardo

63

In the Age of the Year

65

A Lover’s Christmas

66

Ballad of Kirkland Hills

67

The Closed Room

69

Under the Holly Bough

70

Cosette’s Christmas

72

Pilgrims

76

Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide

A Bell

Had I the power

To cast a bell that should from some grand tower,

At the first Christmas hour,

Out-ring,

And fling

A jubilant message wide,

The forgèd metals should be thus allied;—

No iron Pride,

But soft Humility and rich-veined Hope

Cleft from a sunny slope,

And there should be

White Charity,

And silvery Love, that knows nor Doubt nor Fear,

To make the peal more clear;

And then, to firmly fix the fine alloy,

There should be Joy!

Christmas Elves

If you walk on Christmas eve,

And the moon doth shine aright,

You will see them weave,—

Nimble gnome, and fay and sprite,—

Devious dances in the lustrous lunar light.

Round and round the holly bole

Will they dart and glide and spring;

And a tripping troll

Will they in a chorus sing;

Threading now in broken, now in linkèd ring.

Berry bright, berry bright,

Be the love about your hearth!

Leafy green, leafy green,

Be perennial your mirth!

Sturdy as a holly bole be your footing of the earth!

These white spirits of old Yule,

Happy you who hear their tune!

Joy with you shall rule,

Life for you shall be a boon

Round the year through all the watches of the moon!

The Christmas Angel

In middle heaven a form behold;

Fair-aureoled

Her shapely brow with noon-bright gold;

Soli Deo Gloria!

Upon a little cloud she stands,

Within her hands

A tympanum with scarlet bands;

Soli Deo Gloria!

Thereon she playeth without fault,

While up the vault

Her voice makes silvery assault—

Soli Deo Gloria!

Till, blended with her soaring notes,

Adown there floats

An echo from a myriad throats—

Soli Deo Gloria!

An angel she of God’s own choir,

Whose one desire

Is higher yet to chant, and higher—

Soli Deo Gloria!

And every year, upon the morn

When Christ was born

Within the manger-bed forlorn—

Soli Deo Gloria!

’Tis hers to bid song’s raptures run

From sun to sun,

And list to earth’s low antiphon—

Soli Deo Gloria!

Would that our praise might swell and rise

Along the skies,

And scale the gates of Paradise—

Soli Deo Gloria!

Bearing, with more complete accord,

Unto the Lord,—

Forevermore our watch and ward,—

Soli Deo Gloria!

Nazareth Town

Nazareth town in Galilee!

Set where the paths lead up from the sea

That like the chords of a mighty lyre

Dirges over the rocks of Tyre,

Mourns where the piers of Sidon shone,

And the battlements cinctured Ascalon.

They have waned as the sunset wanes;

Little more than a name remains;

But more than a name we hold it,—we,—

Nazareth town in Galilee!

Nazareth town in Galilee!

Ah, what a golden harmony

The dawn seems, flooding its bright white walls!

And, when the violet twilight falls,

What a vast processional of stars

Pageants over its stilled bazaars!

And when the full moon touches the height

Of Tabor, a torch of brilliant light,

Never was sight more fair to see;—

Nazareth town in Galilee!

Nazareth town in Galilee!

Strumming a desert melody,

The Bedouin minstrel trolls in the street;

At the Well of the Virgin the maidens meet;

The cactus-hedges crimson to flower,

And the olives silver hour by hour

As through their branches the south wind steals;

A clear bell peals, and a vulture wheels

Over the crest where the wild crags be;—

Nazareth town in Galilee!

Nazareth town in Galilee!

At the sound of the words how memory

Kindles as earth does under the spring,

Till the dead days rise for our visioning;

And out of them one compassionate face

Beams with a more than mortal grace;

Out of them one inspiring voice

Cries in the ears of the world “rejoice!”

And ever a beacon of hope shall be

Nazareth town in Galilee!

A Christmas Masque

FIRST KING

I am the monarch Melchior,

Mighty alike in peace and war.

SECOND KING

I am the sovereign Balthasar;

A myriad fold my liegemen are.

THIRD KING

The royal ruler Jasper, I,

Lord of a spacious empery.

FIRST KING

Yet do I seek a little child,—

SECOND KING

A tiny nursling undefiled;

THIRD KING

And I am one likewise beguiled.

FIRST KING

To Him whose coming stars foretold,—

A babe divine in mortal mould,—

I bear this goodly gift of gold.

SECOND KING

To Him whose life shall ease the sting

Of mankind’s weary travailing,

This fragrant frankincense I bring.

THIRD KING

To Him whose loving words shall stir

To aspirations holier,

My offering is this precious myrrh.

ALL

Piercing the mists of time, we see

The cruel cross, the agony,

And, whelmed with pity, bend the knee.

Piercing the mists of time, we gaze

Adown the future’s opening ways,

And hear the swelling prayer and praise.

Piercing the mists of time, we hail

The day when woe and sin shall fail,

And over all His love prevail.

A Song for Christmas Morning

O wear for garment mirth

Upon the soul,

As all the fields of earth

Wear one white stole!

A dream of things long gone

Let sorrow be:

Turn thou thine eyes on dawn,

Thy heart on glee!

What wonder everywhere

Above, abroad!

The amplitudes of air

Abrim with God.

His presence shining through

The risen sun,

And in the bending blue

His benison.

Into the gulfs of gloom

Go death and night;

Behold around thee bloom

Glad life and light!

The veil of darkness drawn,

Thy vision free,

Turn thou thy soul on dawn,

Exultingly!

The Christmas Minstrels

Now that the joy-day of the year is nearing,

In that fair sun-land set ’twixt sea and sea,

From hill and mountain dale behold appearing

With jocund strains a minstrel company.

The reeds that shepherds played in eras olden,

These are the tuneful pipes whereon they blow;

The sky that over-arches is the golden,

The bright Calabrian sky of long ago.

And since the decades of the saints and sages,

When here to Christ was first raised prayerful praise,

These minstrel men through all the echoing ages

Have heralded the hallowed Christmas days.

From lonely shrines on steep and stony byways

Their clear wild music up the pathway soars;

It gushes like a fount on traveled highways,

And through the populous piazza pours.

They cling to their old ways, these simple-hearted

And humble dwellers on the uplands high;

Their notes, an echo of the days departed,

Span gulfs of time, and bring the dead years nigh.

Long may the cool Calabrian laurel alleys

Hearken the strains, in rarer ether born,

Of minstrels wending down the mountain valleys

To greet the coming of the Christmas morn!

Twelfth Night Song

Heaped be the fagots high,

And the half-burnèd bough

From last year’s revelry

Be litten now!

Brimmed be the posset bowl

For every lusty soul;

And while the maskers rule,

Cry ‘Noel!’ cry ‘Noel!’ down all the halls of Yule!

O eager viols, thrill!

Pipe, hautboys, clear and sweet!

Work your impetuous will,

Ye restless feet!

For every lip—a glass!

For every lad—a lass!

And, ere the ardors cool,

Cry ‘Noel!’ cry ‘Noel!’ down all the halls of Yule!

Yule at Thengelfor

It was Yule at Thengelfor,—

The sharp white tide of Yule;

And the mailèd Thanes of War,

Bred in the fiery school

Of the devotees of Thor,

Flung into the council-hall

With sneer and clamorous call

At the calm-browed Thanes of Peace

Who worshiped without cease,—

Bending in prayer the knee

To the One of Galilee

Who died, as they said, for all.

Each man stood in his place

That sharp white noon of Yule,

And the War-Thanes hooted “fool,”

And “coward” and “craven knave;”

And they flashed, each one, a glaive

In every Peace-Thane’s face.

But the Peace-Thanes were not cowed,

Smiling their quiet smile

At the flaunts and threats and jeers

Roaring about their ears;

And they held them poised and proud,

Till, after a breathing while,

The tumult died like the sea

Subsiding sullenly

Around the breast of an isle

Set at the last fiord’s verge,

Fronting the western surge.

Then into the council-hall

Where Peace confronted War,—

Where Christ confronted Thor,—

Dauntless, willowy, tall,

Came a maid of Thengelfor,—

The Princess. Ah, how fair

Was the sunrise sheen of her hair,

More wondrous to behold

Than her coronet of gold!

And she paused between them there,

As white as the Yule was white,

Till a hush fell on the air

Like the hush of the middle night.

And she said, “What stand ye for?”

To the mailèd Thanes of War;

And they shouted shrill, “For Thor,

And the kingdom’s olden might!”

Then she turned her, level-eyed,

To the Peace-Thanes. “Ye?” she cried;

As in one voice they replied,

“For Christ, and the rule of right!”

“Thor and the war and might!”

Thus she mused for a space;

“Christ and peace and the right!”

And a glory mantled her face.

“Better the right than might,

Ye valiant Thanes of War!

Blood now the Yule is white?

Nay, ’twere a grievous sight!—

Better the Christ than Thor!”

And ever and evermore

By the Baltic’s rugged shore,

In the halls of Thengelfor,

Right not might is the rule,

The Christ and not sanguine Thor

At the sharp white tide of Yule!

A Yule-Tide Carol

O lightly lift thy finger,

Thou loving lutanist,

And let around us linger

Thy music’s mellow mist!

Aye, let the strain beat faster

In captivating time,

And mirth shall be our master

Until the midnight chime!

Noel!—hang high the holly

While leaps the Yule-log’s light;

We’ll drive gray Melancholy

Abroad into the night!

With silvery touch and tingle,

Like brooks ’twixt sunny swards,

Each soaring voice shall mingle

And marry with the chords;

So shall the liquid laughter

Of mirth and music rule,

Till rings the roof-tree’s rafter

With revelries of Yule.

Noel!—hang high the holly,

And twine the ivy-tod;

My merries, we’ll be jolly,

And spurn care like a clod!

Ballad of the Eve of Yule

It was hard on the tide of Yule,

And the wind bit shrewd and sharp,

Churning the river pool,

And turning the deep-wood boughs,

That were wont to droop and drowse,

To the moaning strings of a harp.

A snow-threat gloomed the sky,

And with iterant, raucous caw

A bevy of rooks went by,

Each a seeming thing

Of evil, ominous wing

Flapping adown the flaw.

Then night fell over the fen,

And he mused, still stumbling on,

“Out of the world of men

Into the shades I go!”

And he grimly laughed, when lo,

A light on his pathway shone!

“Mine enemy’s tower!” he said,

As the beacon beckoned him. “Well,

Succor were likely as bread

To be had from a shard or stone,

Or meat from a wolf-gnawed bone,

Or hope in the heart of hell!”

Yet he steered him sheer on the flare,

With a “Here or there, ’tis one!

A corpse in the morning air,

Frozen as rigid as steel,

Or a form on gibbet or wheel,—

What matters it how ’tis done!”

He clanged a summons clear,

Keeping his grip on hate;

And he wavered not to hear

A word from a tongue abhorred,—

Then back swung the outer ward,

And his enemy stood in the gate.

Eyes upon burning eyes

Hung, as when war-fires rule

Under the angry skies;

Then, ere the wrath-flame died,

“Welcome!” his enemy cried,

“For this is the eve of Yule.”

Into the banquet-hall

He was bid as a chosen guest;

And there before them all

Did his enemy give him meat,

And bread of the finest wheat,

And golden wine of the best.

Then was he brought to a room

Where rugs were soft on the floor,

And a fire made fair the gloom;

And, warned with a stern behest

Of the sacred rights of a guest,

A guard was set at the door.

Through the black night-watches long

Did he wait on sleep, but when

Came the peal of the matin song

No slumber had kissed his brow;

So he girded himself, for now

The sunlight lay on the fen.

Then once more did his foe

Proffer him drink and food;

Forth to the court below

Did his enemy lead the way,

Where, as one for a fray,

Chafing, a charger stood.

“Hate!—it is burned into shame;

Scorn!—of myself is the scorn;

Blame!—I confess to the blame;

Vengeance is thine!” he said,

And with averted head

He rode out into the morn.

The Hanging of the Holly

The holly is for happiness;

Hang it, hang it high,

When the holy morn we bless

Shows its rose along the sky!

The holly is for heartsome cheer;

Hang it, hang it high,

While the glory of the year

Lights the heights of all the sky!

The holly is for home-side mirth;

Hang it, hang it high,

Till the dearest day of earth

Fades in shades along the sky!

The Maid of Bethlehem

It was a maid of Bethlehem;—

As fair as spring was she

When first lifts up its fragile cup

The rathe anemone.

It was a man of Bethlehem;—

As dark of heart was he

As is night’s Stygian shadow cast

Upon the lone Dead Sea.

He fawned where’er she set her foot,

He followed her like fate;

And when she sealed his lips with scorn,

He held a tryst with hate.

And then, as venom through the veins,

Through Bethlehem there ran

A whispered malice in the air

That spread from man to man.

“And shall this living lie endure?”

In rising rage, they said;

“The purging fire shall work a cure

Upon her sinful head!”

It was the maid of Bethlehem,

In all her stainless grace,

They seized before the House of God

Within the market-place.

It was the man of Bethlehem

Who led the throng elate

That bore her out with mocking shout

Beyond the city gate.

Around her heaped they fagots high,

And touched the pile with flame;

“Behold!” they cried, “the wanton witch!

She expiates her shame!”

“O sinless One of Calvary,”

Then did they hear her say,

“Prove Thou my blameless innocence

On this, Thy natal day!”

Lo, as she spake, each fiery tongue

Leaped on her foe of foes,

The while from charred and smoking boughs

Burst rose on crimson rose!

It was the man of Bethlehem

Who died in agony;

It was the maid of Bethlehem

Who went unharmed and free.

The Christmas Almsman

It was a Christmas almsman

Came to a palace door;

The flambeaux flared, the music blared,

And gleamed the waxen floor.

“Out on thee, for a vagrant!”

A pompous porter cried;

Quick, get thee gone ere goads be drawn

To scourge thy tattered hide!”

The mirth roared to the rafter,

With plenty groaned the board,

Yet naught they gave that almsman gaunt

Save flaunting fleer and ribald taunt,

Despite his bare and bitter want,

From all their Yule-tide hoard!

It was a Christmas almsman

Unto a hovel came;

The walls so grim were drear and dim

With one pale candle flame.

Yet spake the kindly hoveler

Who saw the beggar’s face:

“You’re welcome here, though lean our cheer;

Enter, and bide a space!”

He shambled in; he crouched him down;

He ate their meagre fare;

And lo, they found, when he had sped,

A scrip of gold and jewels red!

The hoveler had housed and fed

An angel unaware!

The Bells of Christmas

“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,

What do you hear as you roam and roam?”

“Master, I list to the bells of Christmas,

The bells of Christmas, calling me home!

“They call and call, and I fain would hasten

Back to the warmth of the old roof-tree,

To the plentiful board and the merry faces,

And the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”

“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,

Why, then, still do you roam and roam?”

“Master, ’twas but a dream they conjured,

The bells of Christmas, calling me home.

“ ’Twas but a vision out of the distance,

Happy and holy and sweet, forsooth!

’Twas but a vision out of the distance,

Out of the long lost vale of Youth!”

“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,

All of us have our dreams like thee,

And back are borne by the bells of Christmas

To the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”

Christmas Ingle Song

Now once more the year has run

(Sun succeeding sceptred sun)

To the time of hallowed birth,

To the holiest tide of earth;

Out with sadness! out with sin!

Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

While we lift our thanks for thrift,

Praise the giver and the gift,

With the holly, berried bright,

Druid ivy sprays unite!—

Long they both have sacred been;

Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

And the back-log,—let it be

From some ancient forest tree

Great of girth, that flames may roar

Up the chimney high and hoar,

Thus to swell our merry din;

Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

Far into the night with song

Let us the old rites prolong!

Cry, “Noel! noel! noel!”

Until peals the midnight bell!

If we peace and love would win,

Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

Neil MacDonald

“Whither away, O Neil MacDonald?

Whither away so fleet hie ye?”

“I have a tryst to keep, my mother,

Under the boughs of the holly tree!”

“Go ye not, O Neil MacDonald!

Go ye not, prithee! prithee!”

“I must keep the tryst, my mother,

Under the boughs of the holly tree!”

Into the night leaps Neil MacDonald;

Every man has a weird to dree;

He will dree his weird this Yule-tide

Under the boughs of the holly tree.

In the north the pale auroras

Flash and waver spectrally;

But the purple shadows slumber

Under the boughs of the holly tree.

Over the burn bounds Neil MacDonald;

Through the bracken plunges he;

He has won to the purple shadows

Under the boughs of the holly tree.

“O my love!” cries Neil MacDonald;

“O my love! my love!” cries she;

And their lips are met together

Under the boughs of the holly tree.

Bitter the frost upon the moor-side,

Bitter the frost, but what recks he,

With his arms about Fiorna

Under the boughs of the holly tree!

“What is that I hear, beloved?

What is that dark shape I see?”

“You but dream, my Neil MacDonald,

Under the boughs of the holly tree.”

“He dreams not, your Neil MacDonald,

Sister, false as the falsest be!”

Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor

Under the boughs of the holly tree!

Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor!—

Every man has a weird to dree!

He has dreed his, Neil MacDonald,

Under the boughs of the holly tree.

The Star of Bethlehem

Out of the past’s black night

There shines one star

Whose light

Is more than countless constellations are.

High in the east it gleams;—

This radiant star

Whose beams

Are more to man than all the planets are.

Still be thy light displayed,

O Bethlehem star,

Nor fade

Until the circling systems no more are!

Pierol’s Christmas

Into the hall on the night of Yule

Capered the jester, blithe Pierol,

Crying merrily, “Gifts for a fool!”

Sooth, right well did he play the role,

Though the wolf of bitterness gnawed his soul!

Proud his birth as the proudest there,—

Count or baron or haughty knight,

But poverty was his sorry share,—

A lonely tower on a barren height

(And a wit as bright as his purse was light).

So under the motley he hid his name;

Under the motley he hid his heart;

But he could not hide nor he could not tame

His leaping spirit that would out-start,

Nor his face,—Endymion’s counterpart.

“Gifts for a fool!” Troth, they loved him well,—

Loved his beauty and blithesomeness,

Loved his quips and lyric spell

Of the songs he sang with so gay a stress,

And his head thrown back like a hawk in jess!

So they tossed him,—this one a golden chain,

That one a bracelet, another a ring;

Till out of all of that feasting train

There was only a maid who had failed to fling

Some bauble to him,—some costly thing.

And she,—how fair like the thorn in May

She seemed as she sat in her stainless guise!—

As he paused in his pirouetting gay,

Caught to heart the look in his fearless eyes

That were fixed upon her in yearning wise;

And raising a hand,—ne’er was shapelier

By prince or paladin won, I wis,

In the shock of the lists, or the silken stir

Of the courts of Love who is queen of bliss!—

She cast him the honeyed boon of a kiss.

“Gifts—for a—fool!” far, fainter the cry

Drooped in the distance to quaver and shift,

A moment to linger, and then to die.

Of all that meed of a jester’s thrift

Which to Pierol was the dearest gift?

Song for the Eve of Yule

Here’s a fig for Melancholy,

Now the year is at the Yule!

Welcome Fun and welcome Folly!

Welcome anything that’s jolly!

What say you, sweet Mistress Molly,

Shall not Love and Laughter rule?

Come and close about the ingle

While the caverned chimney roars!

Song and merriment shall mingle

Till the very rafters tingle;

Then shall sound the jangle-jingle

Of the sleigh-bells at the doors!

Out upon all frowning faces!

Out upon the ghost of Gloom!

In with games and glees and graces!

Loose (for once) smug Custom’s traces;

Put old Momus through his paces!

Give the merry maskers room!

Aye, a fig for Melancholy!

Garland Love, let Laughter rule!

Hail to Fun and hail to Folly!

Hail the jovial and the jolly!

Shall we not, sweet Mistress Molly,

Now the year is at the Yule!

The Three Kings

Came those monarchs, grave and hoar,

With their gifts, a goodly store,

Gold and frankincense and myrrh,

On that holy night of yore,—

Ator, Sator, Sarasin,

In their hallowed purpose kin,

Following the guiding star,

Each a sacred goal to win.

Did they bear their offerings,

Such a wealth of precious things,

Unto one of princely place,

Sprung, like them, from earthly kings?

Nay, but to an infant born

In a lowly spot forlorn

Yet around whose glorious face

Shone a halo like the morn!

For a spirit unto each

Spake in no uncertain speech,

Saying, “In a manger lies

One who God to man shall teach;

One who shall the night o’erthrow,

Bearing heaven with Him below,—

Love that triumphs over hate,

Peace and joy that conquer woe.”

So those monarchs, men of fame,

Bowed before Him, blessed His name,

Laid their offerings at His feet,

Passed as swiftly as they came.

Stretch the years, a checkered chart,

Since they played their deathless part,

Yet to-day may we, like them,

Giving, hold the Christ at heart.

The Wise Men

The Wise Men wander across the wold,

(O the Star in the sky!)

Bearing their goodly gifts of gold.

(How the low wind whispereth by!

Whispereth

Of birth, not death,

With joy in its lifted cry!)

The Wise Men come unto Bethlehem;

(O the Star in the sky!)

A star is the beacon that guideth them.

(How the soft wind hasteneth by!

Hasteneth

The while it saith,

“O the Light of the World is nigh!”)

The Wise Men kneel at the infant’s feet,

(O the Star in the sky!)

And the loving mother smileth sweet.

(While the wind it hurrieth by,—

Hurrieth

As it gladly saith,

“O the Hope of the World is high!”)

The Wise Men rise, and they go their ways;

(O the Star in the sky!)

And all this happened in the ancient days.

(But the wind still gladdeneth by,—

Gladdeneth

At the death of Death,

That Life hath the victory!)

A Yule Song

Who cries ’tis folly to wreathe the bright holly?

Who is it scoffs at the mistletoe bough?

Marry, then, out on him! marry, then, flout on him!

If there’s a time to be jolly, ’tis now!

Berry-tide, cherry-tide, each is a merry tide,

And there’s charm in the nutting, I vow!

But none surpasses,—how say you, my lasses?—

The time for up-hanging the mistletoe bough!

Reason,—away with it! Men have grown gray with it,

Pondering why and considering how;

We have no part in it,—nay, and no heart in it!—

Under the droop of the mistletoe bough!

So, lads, your choices all! Lift, maids, your voices all!

Love levels prince with the man at the plough.

We’ll make our boast of it, we’ll make our toast of it,—

Ne’er may it wither, the mistletoe bough!

The Christmas Hunter

With blare of horn and holloa,

Who is it forth doth fare?

It is the Christmas Hunter

Who rides adown the air.

Upon his wild steed, Sleipnir,

He storms across the sky;

And like the moan of ocean

His vanguard surges by.

They are the Judas-hearted,—

They are the souls of them

That spurned God’s own anointed,

The Man of Bethlehem.

For them nor peace nor joyance

At this high tide of Yule,

Since they are doomed to follow

The Hunter’s iron rule.

Rage fills his veins with riot

When peals the Christmas mirth,

For memory bears him backward

When he had power on earth.

So mad he whirls his minions

Behind him fast and far,

Without or pause or pity,

From star to utmost star.

The once almighty Odin

Whom Christ hurled from his height,

He is the Christmas Hunter

Who roams the voids of night.

A Christmas Song

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?

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.”

“It’s list! my merry huntsman,

They wot thy coming well,

And wait thee where the pathway dips

To cross the birken dell.”

“It’s good! mine ancient gossip,

How many may there be

Betwixt me and my Christmas tryst

Beneath the greenwood-tree?”

“It’s hark! my merry huntsman,

There’s Bernard of the Bow,

Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,

And Giles of Clariveaux;

“There’s Giles, my merry huntsman,

The wiliest of men,

Brother in blood, though black his heart,

To one whose name ye ken.”

“Gramercy! ancient gossip,

And shall these stay my foot?

Then may the House of Hardigrave

Be withered to the root!”

He gave his page his hound in leash,

His hawk and eke his horn,

And gaily did he onward ride

Beneath the Christmas morn.

And now the birken dell was won,

And now the shallow ford,

And now he heard the scabbard ring

Its answer to the sword.

And forth from out the coppice deep

Rode Bernard of the Bow,

Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,

And Giles of Clariveaux.

Small parley was there then, God wot,

But bickering of steel,

And down clashed Bernard of the Bow

Beneath his charger’s heel.

And Egbert of the Crooked Arm

Reeled sidewise as he knew

The sharp bite of a falchion’s point

His stricken harness through.

Then clear rang out the huntsman’s shout,

Right merrily cried he,

“God’s with the son of Hardigrave

Who loves La Belle Marie!”

Oh, deep cursed Giles of Clariveaux

To hear his sister’s name,

While ’neath his vizor burned his eyes

Like orbs of evil flame!

“Have at thee, Hardigrave!” he hissed,

“This riding thou shalt rue!”

And round them like a fiery mist

The spiteful sparks outflew.

’Twas parry, cut and countercut,

And fiercer-faced the while

Grew treacherous Giles of Clariveaux

To mark the huntsman’s smile.

And seeing he was sore beset,

That urgent grew his need,

He aimed a caitiff’s coward blow

To maim his foeman’s steed.

But vain that cruel, craven thrust,

For whiles he strove to rein

The shoulder of his sword-arm

Was riven half in twain.

* * * * *

O starling in the thicket, see

Where, eyes with love aglow,

Adown the forest pathway goes

The rose of Clariveaux!

And hearken, O ye holly boughs!

And, O ye larches, list!

It is the song of one who rides

To keep his Christmas tryst.

A Knight’s Christmas

I hear the shrilling hautboys sound,

The thrilling drums take up the din,

And through the doorway’s gaping bound

A lusty, mincing manikin

Bears, garlanded, the boar’s head in.

The great bells clamor in the tower

Their jubilation. Down the hall

Mirth bursts into a brilliant flower

Of quip and toast and madrigal;

“Noel! Noel! Noel!” cry all.

And yet joy seems a thing foredone

Forevermore in every place

Beneath the red rays of the sun;—

What is Christ’s mass that wrought man grace

Without the favor of love’s face!

The White Ladye

“The flax upon your distaff

Is yellow as your hair,

But why, on Christmas even,

Thus spin you, maiden fair?

“The joy-bells in the steeples

Are ringing clear and wide;

O stop the whirring spindle,

And put the flax aside!”

“Nay, but I may not, master,

Although I weary be,

Lest through the open shutter

Should peer the White Ladye;

“And find my treadle idle,

My flax in tangled fold,

And on the merry morrow

Forget her gift of gold.

“For to the slothful virgin

She causeth sorrowing,

But to the thrifty maiden

A blessing she doth bring!”

A soft touch at the shutter,—

A face divine to see!

It is the fairy spinner,

It is the White Ladye!

The Wizard People

Adown the ways of winter,

Above the vasts of snow,

With woven flame their sandals shod,

Through airy wastes by paths untrod,

The wizard people go.

By day their feats are hidden,

But night beholds their mirth,

When in the abysses of the air

Their sorceries they flaunt and flare

Above a wondering earth.

In vain the hilltops hearken,

Their lips no sound reveal;

But ever on, from arc to arc,

Across the spangled depths of dark

Their pennons whirl and wheel.

Why come they? Who can answer?

Whence go they? Who can tell?

Flaming and fading down the night,

A mystery, a dream-delight,

A splendor and a spell!

Such are the wizard people,

The brethren of the pole;

And though man long has sought to gain

Their secret, suns shall wax and wane

Ere he shall read their soul!

Holly Song

Care is but a broken bubble,

Trill the carol, troll the catch!

Sooth we’ll cry, “A truce to trouble!”

Mirth and mistletoe shall match!

Happy folly! we’ll be jolly!

Who’d be melancholy now?

With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”

Polly hangs the holly bough.

Laughter lurking in the eye, sir,

Pleasure foots it frisk and free;

He who frowns or looks awry, sir,

Faith, a witless wight is he!

Merry folly! what a volley

Greets the hanging of the bough!

With a “Hey, the holly! ho, the holly!”

Who’d be melancholy now?

Gennesar

Bright ’neath the Syrian sun, dim ’neath the Syrian star,

Thus lieth Galilee’s sea, sapphirine lake Gennesar;

Girdled by mountains that range purple and proud to their crests,

Bearing the burden of dreams,—glamour of eld,—on their breasts.

Just one white glint of a sail dotting the brooding expanse;

Beaches that sparkle and gleam, ripples that darkle and dance;

Grandeur and beauty and peace welded year-long into one,

Under the Syrian star, under the Syrian sun!

And over all and through all memories sweet of His name

Kindling the past with their light, touching the future with flame!

Firelight

Whene’er at evening on the pictured wall

I watch the flickering firelight rise and fall,

From out the shifting shadow-vistas come

The forms of those who marched to martyrdom,—

Unflinching souls no agony could tame,

A martyr wraith for every tongue of flame!

Mother-of-Pearl

Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,

Irradiant with all rainbow lights,—

Shimmering, shifting opal whites,

The June-time rose’s palest fire,

The sunset’s most translucent gold,—

Delicate as a precious gem

Shaped for a lover’s heart’s desire,

Glowing as morn, yet virgin cold!

Mother-of-pearl out of Bethlehem,

Thus I read you, bending above

Your sheen, more fair than the breast of a dove;—

The white is the Mother without a stain;

And the blended hues, the fire and the gold,

They stand for Him who for diadem

Had a crown of thorns, and was basely slain,—

The Son of God clad in mortal mould!

The Bells of Ardo

By wide gray orchards girdled,

And cloistered deep in vines,

Remote stood ancient Ardo

Amid the Apennines.

Below her banded belfries

That loomed above the land

For weeks gaunt Plague and Famine

Had walked with linkèd hand.

Until, when neared the Yule-tide,

On pale lips swooned the prayer,

And only sounds of wailing

Swept down the bitter air.

No heart had any ringer

To sound the joyful bells;

The soaring campanile

Pealed naught but burial knells.

So when the Christmas sunlight

Scattered the chill white haze

The sorely scourgèd people

Were smitten with amaze

Hearing from San Stefano,—

A spire and shrine forlorn,—

A glorious jubilate

Salute the startled morn.

Fast flocked the folk, and wonder

Swelled high that dawning hour,

For unseen hands were swinging

The bells within the tower.

And ’twixt their rhythmic chiming,

Word upon precious word,

A vibrant voice of promise

In solemn wise was heard;

“This day,” it cried, “my people,

The cruel curse shall cease,

And there shall fall upon you

My benison of peace!”

When failed the silvery bell-notes

Till arch and aisle were still,

’Twas found that all in Ardo

Were healed of every ill.

And now, as Christmas morning

Breaks over street and square

The bells of San Stefano

Ring out upon the air;

And still the gathered people

Lift praise with glad accord

Unto the One almighty

That was their fathers’ Lord.

In the Age of the Year

Is it the wizard wind

That has shriveled the quince’s rind?

Sooth, we know it was he

Who shook the leaves from the tree

And danced them out of breath

Till they wizened away in death!

Strange and subtile powers

Have rule of these ashen hours,

Binding the stricken sphere

In this, the age of the year.

Through the crispèd grass and the husk

Rustle the feet of the Dusk;

And the only song we know

Is the back-log’s murmur low.

Then come, and sit with me

By the side of Memory

And Love, with the bluet skies

In her spring-reverting eyes,

And there shall be vernal cheer

In this, the age of the year!

A Lover’s Christmas

Fade the last embers in the year’s chill urn;

Ah, love, how red the holly berries burn!

A shroud of ermine hides the meadow ways;

Ah, love, how green are still the ivy sprays!

Black are the boughs against a sky of gray;

Ah, love, how golden is the Yule-log’s ray!

Behind the wood the sad wind plainteth long;

Ah, love, the mirth within the mummer’s song!

In garth and orchard naught but gloom and dearth;

Ah, love, the joy about the Christmas hearth!

Winter’s white woe, its bitter sting and smart—

Ah, love, the love aye vernal, in the heart!

Ballad of Kirkland Hills

The grand old hills of Kirkland

Stood up against the morn,

As o’er a rutty road there strode

A pilgrim lean and lorn.

The wood-crowned hills of Kirkland,

They notched the wan blue sky,

As toward that plodding pilgrim came

A horseman urging by.

“I prithee, weary pilgrim,

Now whither dost thou roam?”

“I seek a gabled farmstead set

Amid these hills of home;

“I seek an ancient rooftree set

Amid these uplands white.”

“God give thee luck,” the horseman cried,

“Before this Christmas night!”

The kindly hills of Kirkland,

They saw, when broad noon shone

Above the fair Oriska vale,

This pilgrim toiling on.

The hemlocks preened their night-dark plumes

As up and up he clomb;

The same old rook-calls welcomed him

Back to the hills of home.

High on the hills of Kirkland

Where hale the north-wind roared,

O gay were they that grouped about

The heapèd Christmas board!

And yet the brooding mother,

With smiles she hid the tear

For one whose lips she had not kissed

This many a lonely year;

For one whose wander-lust had led

His roving spirit far,

Until she dreamed he slept beneath

The clear Alaskan star.

Hark, at the door a summons!

A step upon the sill!

O mother-eyes abrim with joy,

And mother-heart athrill!

And O ye hills of Kirkland,

In wintry white and gray,

A gladder sight ye never saw

On any Christmas day!

The Closed Room

In the marvelous house of life

Each year is a closèd room;

It is filled with peace and strife,

It is packed with glow and gloom.

There are hopes in the hues of dream,

There are cares in their grim array,

There are pleasures that glint and gleam,

And sorrows in drugget gray.

For some, with his infinite grace,

Love waits when the portal jars;

For some, with his sphinx-like face,

Death stands when the door unbars.

Some back from the threshold shrink,

As loath from the past to part;

But the most plunge over the brink

With never a fear at heart.

Then silent closes the door

At the sound of the last old chime,

And the key—Forevermore—

Is turned by the keeper—Time!

Under the Holly Bough

When the hale year laughed in the prime of May,

And each path was a lure to the truant eye,

When the south-wind sang: “Come away! Come away!”

(Ah, but the blue of a vernal sky!)

When the vireo’s voice was a lyric cry,

’Twas the bloom o’ the apple beckoned us; now

When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why,

’Tis under the green of the holly bough!

When the meadows swooned in the dazzling day,

And the hilltops seemed in a dream to lie,

When shrill was the locust’s roundelay,

(Ah, but the glow of a summer sky!)

When the stream-song sank to a rippling sigh,

’Twas the pleach o’ the elm-leaves beckoned us; now

When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why,

’Tis under the green of the holly bough!

When the woodland gleamed like a prismy ray,

And the distance drowsed in a golden dye,

When vineyard and orchard aisles were gay

(Ah, but the depths of an autumn sky!)

With stains like a web of Tyrian ply,

’Twas the flame o’ the maple beckoned us; now

When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why,

’Tis under the green of the holly bough!

ENVOY

Spring, summer and autumn have all sped by,

(Ah, but the chill of a winter sky!)

Yet love still calls to the tryst, and now

’Tis under the green of the holly bough!

Cosette’s Christmas

Cosette they called her; Cosette, that was all;

Fragile she was and flower-like, slim and tall

For her eleven years, wherein her heart

Had known but little save the world’s sharp smart.

Never her ear had heard a mother’s croon;

Never for her, about the break of June,

Had been outstretched a father’s shielding hand

To guide her woodward through the smiling land.

The streets oppressed her with their cruel roar;

The birds she saw above her dart and soar,

Theirs was the life she longed for, not to be

Mewed within walls that were a gloom to see,

And stung with taunts from a virago tongue

That aged her spirit yearning to be young.

Foundling,—a fate that brooked of no appeal

Was hers by some inexorable seal.

Backward and forward oft she went and came

From the grim spot, that was but home in name,

On casual errandry. It chanced one day,

As she passed swiftly on her timid way,

(’Twas near the season of the Christ-child’s birth,

The happy tide of peace and love on earth)

A heedless hand struck from her feeble grasp

The glass she strove so carefully to clasp,

And she beheld it, with a plaintive cry,

Shattered before her on the pavement lie.

The throng swept by, and caught her in its swirl;

There was no lip to soothe the sobbing girl,

No kindliness to aid her. A great fear

Clutched at her breast; she knew the stabbing jeer,

The pitiless blows that waited her when she

Told the ill outcome of her errandry.

Then through her brain there flashed a sudden word

That in the hive-like purlieus she had heard,

And filled her mind with sunshine. No affright

Touched her with chill at thought of death’s dim night,

For she recalled how once the preacher said

That in white lily-gardens walk the dead.

So in she stole at the accustomed door,

Sought out a room upon the lower floor

Wherein the porter, sullen-visaged, slept;

Toward a remembered drawer on tiptoe crept,

Plucked, undetected, thence a shining thing,

And gained again the street in triumphing.

A ringing shot, a little piteous moan,

And a child’s blood encrimsoning the stone!

When Cosette oped her heavy-lidded eyes,

Wonder assailed her, and a great surmise.

Was this the lily-land of her delight?

It shone so bare, and yet so very white!

Long stainless walls and little cots in rows,

And one whose smile invited to repose;

She drowsed, her mind still dwelling on that face,

And dreamed she’d found the angels’ sleeping-place.

And when, next day, they told her where she lay,

A tiny tear-drop found its mournful way

Adown the death-like pallor of her cheek;

She closed her eyes and sighed, but did not speak.

Dawn followed dawn, and still the little one

Went not to that dim bourn beyond the sun,

But ever seemed about to pass thereto;

Nearer and nearer now the Yule-tide drew,

And to the hospital one morn there strayed

A kindly man who made the news his trade,

And learned the piteous story of the maid.

“Cosette,” he said, with a strange catch of tone,

His sight grown dim, remembering his own,

“Have you no wish?” and she, with him at ease,

Cried,—“Two red roses and an orange, please!”

Just two red roses and an orange! So

He wrote next day that all the town might know;

Then Christmas morning broke above the snow.

The morn of Christmas broke; bell spoke to bell

The loving message of “good-will” to tell;

The postmen bustled on their burdened round;

And happy greetings rang with cordial sound.

Then, at the hospital, a summons came,

Another and another, and the name

The answering nurse with every message met

Was still “Cosette,” and evermore “Cosette,”

For all had read the story of the child.

Roses upon her bed were strewn and piled,

And breathed their June about her everywhere,

Gleamed on the table, glistened on the chair,

From the soft loveliness of the pale tea-rose

To the deep splendor of the Jacqueminots.

And oranges! forsooth, it was as though

The palm-set lands where the long trade-winds blow,

Fair Florida and the Lucayan shores,

Had here unbosomed their most precious stores!

Both rich and poor had sought to ease the smart

Of her whose tale had touched the city’s heart.

And she—Cosette—through kindness’ golden dower,

Smiled upon life, and mended from that hour.

Pilgrims

Their path who shall unravel,

Their purpose who unroll?

From out the past they travel,

The future is their goal.

Theirs are the forward faces,

The spring’s Arcadian airs;

The old eternal graces

Of youngling Time are theirs.

Or gold the sky or ashen,

There broods within their breast

The sleepless pilgrim passion,

The sweet divine unrest.

They neither flag nor falter,

They tarry not nor tire;

Their aim they will not alter

Although a king desire.

They fear nor frost nor fever,

Nor fire nor famine they;

They follow Fate, the weaver,

For ever and a day.

Now tell their eyes the story

Of more than mortal tears,

Now gleam with starry glory,

The passing pilgrim Years.

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Table of Contents

Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide

CONTENTS

Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide

A Bell

Christmas Elves

The Christmas Angel

Nazareth Town

A Christmas Masque

FIRST KING

SECOND KING

THIRD KING

FIRST KING

SECOND KING

THIRD KING

FIRST KING

SECOND KING

THIRD KING

ALL

A Song for Christmas Morning

The Christmas Minstrels

Twelfth Night Song

Yule at Thengelfor

A Yule-Tide Carol

Ballad of the Eve of Yule

The Hanging of the Holly

The Maid of Bethlehem

The Christmas Almsman

The Bells of Christmas

Christmas Ingle Song

Neil MacDonald

The Star of Bethlehem

Pierol’s Christmas

Song for the Eve of Yule

The Three Kings

The Wise Men

A Yule Song

The Christmas Hunter

A Christmas Song

A Lover to His Rhyme

The Christmas Pilgrimage (Bethlehem)

The Yule-Log

Ballad of the Christmas Tryst

A Knight’s Christmas

The White Ladye

The Wizard People

Holly Song

Gennesar

Firelight

Mother-of-Pearl

The Bells of Ardo

In the Age of the Year

A Lover’s Christmas

Ballad of Kirkland Hills

The Closed Room

Under the Holly Bough

ENVOY

Cosette’s Christmas

Pilgrims

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE