Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread,
  Though withered—blessed grass that hath the grace
  To deck and be a carpet to that place!
Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed,
  Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed on knees;
  And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees.

"What means this glory round our feet,"
  The Magi mused, "more bright than morn?"
And voices chanted clear and sweet,
  "To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"

"What means that star," the Shepherds said,
  "That brightens through the rocky glen?"
And angels, answering overhead.
  Sang, "Peace on earth, good-will to men!"

'Tis eighteen hundred years and more
  Since those sweet oracles were dumb;
We wait for Him, like them of yore;
  Alas, He seems so slow to come!

But it was said, in words of gold,
  No time or sorrow e'er shall dim,