Poems (Proctor)/Christmas Eve at Bethlehem
CHRISTMAS EVE AT BETHLEHEM.
The Christ-thorn rustles in the hedge,
The chill wind sighs by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon;
And though, o'er Moab's mountain wall,
The stars in orient splendor climb
As on that rarest night of time
When Jesus for the world was won,
Yet never Bethlehem's height or vale,
Though shepherds watch till stars grow pale—
Nays, till the latest evening fall—
Will see an angel's radiant flight
Burn through the splendor of the night,
Or hear that seraph-song again,
"On earth be peace, good will toward men!"
Only the Christ-thorn in the hedge,
The chill wind's sigh by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon.
The chill wind sighs by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon;
And though, o'er Moab's mountain wall,
The stars in orient splendor climb
As on that rarest night of time
When Jesus for the world was won,
Yet never Bethlehem's height or vale,
Though shepherds watch till stars grow pale—
Nays, till the latest evening fall—
Will see an angel's radiant flight
Burn through the splendor of the night,
Or hear that seraph-song again,
"On earth be peace, good will toward men!"
Only the Christ-thorn in the hedge,
The chill wind's sigh by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon.
White, through the gloom, the convent towers,
Where tearful pilgrims count the hours
With Aves until midnight's chime
Shall usher in the day sublime,
Thronging the nave of Helena;
Or seek the crypt, their holiest quest,
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.
Where tearful pilgrims count the hours
With Aves until midnight's chime
Shall usher in the day sublime,
Thronging the nave of Helena;
Or seek the crypt, their holiest quest,
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.
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?
Since that immortal night went by
The whole earth is our Bethlehem;
Hosannas ring from every sky!
In forest glade, on billowy main,
Judea's height, Nebraska's plain,—
By any shore or mount or sea
Where faith and hope and love abide
And self is lost in sacrifice,
There the celestial gates swing wide
And heaven descends to human eyes;
There Christ the Lord is born again;
There is his new Nativity!
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?
Since that immortal night went by
The whole earth is our Bethlehem;
Hosannas ring from every sky!
In forest glade, on billowy main,
Judea's height, Nebraska's plain,—
By any shore or mount or sea
Where faith and hope and love abide
And self is lost in sacrifice,
There the celestial gates swing wide
And heaven descends to human eyes;
There Christ the Lord is born again;
There is his new Nativity!
Who sorrows for a vanished dawn
When east and west proclaim the sun?
Welcome be Bethlehem's silent lawn,
Its songless skies and shadows dun,
The Christ-thorn rustling in the hedge,
The chill wind's sigh by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon!
When east and west proclaim the sun?
Welcome be Bethlehem's silent lawn,
Its songless skies and shadows dun,
The Christ-thorn rustling in the hedge,
The chill wind's sigh by Kedron's edge—
The snow-wind blown from Lebanon!