Classic Poem

There grew, within a favour'd vale,
As old traditions tell the tale,
A famous, flowering, Eastern thorn,
Which blossom'd every Christmas morn.

No lowly hearth, no lordly hall,
New dress'd for the yearly festival,
But gathered it, as the gift of May,
To honour the auspicious day.

And brightly mid the Christmas green
It shines, in the fire-light's ruddy sheen,
Mix'd with hard berries that gleam and glow
From holly and from mistletoe.

That tree is like the Tree of Life,
Which buds when the season of joy is rife,
And flowers when the bright dawn wakes above
The day that Religion gave birth to Love.

And, as Time the eternal morn resumes,
Humanity's grateful joy o'erblooms
The naked sight of the bleeding thorn,
Which Love on his brows for man hath worn.

O! let us still through love unite
To celebrate the holy rite;
That all the thorns of life may show
Nought but sweet flowers above the snow!