  There runs an old, old legend, A tale of Christmas time, Low breathed round the fireside In distant Northern clime; It tells how once an angel Looked down in mercy sweet, And bade the people listen To hear the Master's feet: "Behold the Christ-child cometh! The King of love is near! Oh! bring your gifts of Noel Unto the Lord most dear." With golden grain of plenty Fair shone each raptured home; The corn crown'd every dwelling Whereto the Christ should come. And one, a blue-eyed stripling, In longing all unknown, With heart aflame had labored For gift that God might own: "Behold the Christ-child cometh!" Up rose the music blest, And Silverus stood waiting With sheaf the richest, blest. A tiny bird, nigh fainting, A little trembling thing, Through chilling airs of Christmas Drew near on drooping wing; The people raised a clamor, They chased it from the corn, They drove it from the garlands That gleamed for Christmas morn: "Behold the Christ-child cometh!" His praise they fain would win; How could they bring to Jesus An offering marred and thin? On drooping, dying pinion That vainly sought relief, The shivering bird down lighted Where shone the proudest sheaf; And Silverus moved softly, Though dews all wistful stirred, Close, close within his bosom He fed the fainting bird: "Behold the Christ-child neareth!" He spake in faltering tone, "The golden ears are broken, Yet broken for His own." And while the sheaf of beauty Grew marred and spent and bare, The sweet bird flew to heaven; The King of love stood there: "Oh! tender heart and Christlike, Whose yearnings soared on high, Yet could not see, uncaring, My weakest creature die! Lo, I am with thee always, My Christmas light is thine; The dearest gift of Noel Is pity poured for mine!" |
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