Part 2

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