A Non-Natural Christmas
O Christmas hollies! O thrice-blessed morn!
Again with thy dear message art thou come,
A word of joy to thousands, but to some
A fable among fables, ‘Christ is born!’
Hold off the hour to which our folly leans,
When priesthood in his own white robe shall stand
Forsworn—amid the faithful evergreens!
A thief—a traitor to his own right hand!
Once perjured and ordain'd, what follows next?
Whene'er, as preacher, to his flock he speaks,
The self-yoked sophist, fretting at his text,
Will rub against its meaning—while the weeks
And months drag on his hollow Christian year—
Woe to faint hearts! we must not falter here.
Again with thy dear message art thou come,
A word of joy to thousands, but to some
A fable among fables, ‘Christ is born!’
Hold off the hour to which our folly leans,
When priesthood in his own white robe shall stand
Forsworn—amid the faithful evergreens!
A thief—a traitor to his own right hand!
Once perjured and ordain'd, what follows next?
Whene'er, as preacher, to his flock he speaks,
The self-yoked sophist, fretting at his text,
Will rub against its meaning—while the weeks
And months drag on his hollow Christian year—
Woe to faint hearts! we must not falter here.
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