THE CRIME OF CHRISTMASTIME.

Two thousand years!— two thousand years

Since Mary, with a mother's fears,

Brought forth for all humanities

The Christian of the centuries;

And now men turn from toil away

To celebrate his natal day

By feasting happy hours away

And giving gifts with lavish hand,

Throughout the length of every land;—

A noble custom nobly born

In Bethlehem one holy morn,

But intermingling with the good,

A pagan custom long has stood,

As you and I and all may see —

This war against the greenwood tree,

This robbing of posterity,—

Until the burden of my rhyme

Is of this crime of Christmastime.

The skies are white with soft moonlight;

In Christian lands the lamps burn bright,

In splendor gleaming from the walls

Of parlors and of festive halls;

Or yet, amid some snow-white choir,

Sweet maidens sing the world's desire,

Till, answering in low refrain,

The people all repeat the strain

Of “peace on earth, to men good-will,”

When sudden all the hall is still.

Then tender music, soft and low,

Heavenward seems to float and flow,

But — mid these glittering lights, O see

The stately form of greenwood tree!

Whose graceful arms are drooping wide

As grieving this fair Christmastide.

The hills are white with lovely light,

And everywhere the stars burn bright

In splendor gleaming on the wood,

Where once, in loyal familyhood,

The evergreens together stood,

But — now no vespers, sweet or low,

In happy measures upward flow,

For there — by Heaven's lights, O see

The absence of the greenwood tree!

Whose noble form once waiving wide,

This melancholy waste did hide.

Yet here and there a lonely tree

Still sounds a mournful melody,

And answering, in low refrain,

The winds repeat the solemn strain,

Until the hills conscious of harm,

Awaken in a wild alarm,

Until, with trumpets to the sky,

They echo up to Heaven the cry:—

Ye Forests, rouse — shake off thy shroud,

And sound a protest, long and loud;

Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chide

This carelessness of Christmastide —

And Man, thou prodigal of Time,

Bestir thyself — and heed my rhyme,

And curb this crime of Christmastime.