_Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide_




                       _SECOND EDITION ENLARGED_




                           _Lyrics & Legends
                          of Christmas-Tide_

                          _CLINTON SCOLLARD_

                       [Illustration: colophon]

                          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.