CHRISTMAS EVE AT BETHLEEHEM.
97
To read upon its stones imprest,
"Hic Jesus Christus natus est,"
And kneel to kiss the pavement star!
The silver lamps swing to and fro;
The monks in long procession go,
Slow-winding round the altar stair;
But crypt and shrine are mute and bare;
The Christ is gone, the glory fled
That shone above his manger-bed,
And the pale monks but mourn him there.
Without, beside the guarded gate—
The gate that fronts the rising sun—
No lordly emirs reverent wait
With gifts to hail the new-born King;
No shepherds from their pastures run
To see the babe the angels sing,
But all is hushed and desolate;
Only the Christ-thorn in the hedge,
The chill wind's sigh by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon.
"Hic Jesus Christus natus est,"
And kneel to kiss the pavement star!
The silver lamps swing to and fro;
The monks in long procession go,
Slow-winding round the altar stair;
But crypt and shrine are mute and bare;
The Christ is gone, the glory fled
That shone above his manger-bed,
And the pale monks but mourn him there.
Without, beside the guarded gate—
The gate that fronts the rising sun—
No lordly emirs reverent wait
With gifts to hail the new-born King;
No shepherds from their pastures run
To see the babe the angels sing,
But all is hushed and desolate;
Only the Christ-thorn in the hedge,
The chill wind's sigh by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon.
And are we then forgot, bereft,
Because no host the sky has cleft?
No glory shone above the plain
Where burst the high, seraphic strain?
No wise men journeyed o'er the wold
With myrrh and frankincense and gold
To greet the Babe of Paradise
In the low cradle where he lies?
Nay! what do we with song or gem?
Because no host the sky has cleft?
No glory shone above the plain
Where burst the high, seraphic strain?
No wise men journeyed o'er the wold
With myrrh and frankincense and gold
To greet the Babe of Paradise
In the low cradle where he lies?
Nay! what do we with song or gem?
