Poem by Paul Hamilton Hayne

A Christmas Lyric

THO' the Earth with age seems whitened,
And her tresses hoary and old
No longer are flushed mad brightened
By glintings of brown or gold,
A voice from the Syrian highlands,
O'er waters that flash and stir,
By the belts of their tropic islands,
Still singeth of joy to her!

A song which the centuries hallow!
Though softer than April rain
That soweth on field and fallow,
A spell that shall rise in grain--
Yet deep as the sea-strain chanted
On the fluctuant ocean-lyre,
By the magical west-wind haunted,
With the pulse of his soul on fire!

A promise to lift the lowly,--
To weed the soul of its tares,
And change into harmonies holy
The discord of fierce despairs:
A glory of high Evangels,
Of rhythmical storms and calms;
All hail to the voices of angels,
Heard over the starlit palms!

A hymn of hope to the ages,
The music of deathless trust,
No frenzy of mortal rages
Can darken with doubt or dust;
A rapture of high evangels,
But centred in sacred calms!
Ah! still the chorus of angels
Thrills over the Bethlehem palms!

Still heralds the day-spring tender,
That never can melt or close,
Till the noon of it's deepening splendor
Out-blooms, like a mystic rose,
Whose petals are rays supernal
Of love that hath all sufficed,--
And whose heart is the grace eternal,
Of the fathomless peace of Christ!

1. An Idle Poet, Dreaming in the Sun
2. Too Oft the Poet in Elaborate Verse
3. Along the Path Thy Bleeding Feet Have Trod
4. Baby’s First Word
5. The Laughing Hours before Her Feet

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