 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
167
SANTA CLAUS.
A health to good old Santa Claus,
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
He comes from utmost fairy-land
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
Over the quaint old gables,
Over the windy ridge,
By turret wall and chimney tall,
He guides his fairy sledge;
Over the windy ridge,
By turret wall and chimney tall,
He guides his fairy sledge;
Along the sleeping house-tops
Its silver runners trend,
All loaded down with wonder-books
And tales without an end.
Its silver runners trend,
All loaded down with wonder-books
And tales without an end.
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He steals upon the slumbers
Of little rose-lipped girls,
And lays his waxen dollies down
Beside their golden curls.
Of little rose-lipped girls,
And lays his waxen dollies down
Beside their golden curls.
He scatters blessings on his way
And sugar-coated plums.
He robs the sluggard of his rest,
With trumpets, guns, and drums.
And sugar-coated plums.
He robs the sluggard of his rest,
With trumpets, guns, and drums.
Small feet, before the dawn of day,
Are marching to and fro,
Drums beat to arms through all the house,
And penny trumpets blow.
Are marching to and fro,
Drums beat to arms through all the house,
And penny trumpets blow.
A health to brave old Santa Claus,
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
He tells us of the yule-log
That blazed in Saxon halls,
Of the marchpane and the mistletoe,
And the minstrels' merry calls;
That blazed in Saxon halls,
Of the marchpane and the mistletoe,
And the minstrels' merry calls;
Of Christmas candles burning bright
In ages long ago;
Those long dark ages when the world
Turned round so very slow.
In ages long ago;
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Turned round so very slow.
He comes from utmost fairy-land
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
He lingers till the Christmas bells,
With sweet and solemn chime,
Come sounding o'er the centuries
Through years of war and crime.
With sweet and solemn chime,
Come sounding o'er the centuries
Through years of war and crime.
Ring out, ring out, sweet Christmas bells!
Ring loud and silver clear!
Ring peace on earth, good will to man,
Till all the world shall hear!
Ring loud and silver clear!
Ring peace on earth, good will to man,
Till all the world shall hear!
December, I867.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |