Paul Hamilton Hayne (Пол Гамильтон Хейн)
A Christmas Lyric
THO' the Earth with age seems whitened, And her tresses hoary and old No longer are flushed mad brightened By glintings of brown or gold, A voice from the Syrian highlands, O'er waters that flash and stir, By the belts of their tropic islands, Still singeth of joy to her! A song which the centuries hallow! Though softer than April rain That soweth on field and fallow, A spell that shall rise in grain-- Yet deep as the sea-strain chanted On the fluctuant ocean-lyre, By the magical west-wind haunted, With the pulse of his soul on fire! A promise to lift the lowly,-- To weed the soul of its tares, And change into harmonies holy The discord of fierce despairs: A glory of high Evangels, Of rhythmical storms and calms; All hail to the voices of angels, Heard over the starlit palms! A hymn of hope to the ages, The music of deathless trust, No frenzy of mortal rages Can darken with doubt or dust; A rapture of high evangels, But centred in sacred calms! Ah! still the chorus of angels Thrills over the Bethlehem palms! Still heralds the day-spring tender, That never can melt or close, Till the noon of it's deepening splendor Out-blooms, like a mystic rose, Whose petals are rays supernal Of love that hath all sufficed,-- And whose heart is the grace eternal, Of the fathomless peace of Christ!
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