And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,

Through the silent street, till their horses turned

And neighed as they entered the great inn yard;

But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,

And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,

The little child in the manger lay,

STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest;

Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where

Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about

doubt;

To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;

The bird is safest in its nest;

O'er all that flutter their wings and fly

A hawk is hovering in the sky;

To stay at home is best.

THE WHITE CZAR

The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs.

Dost thou see on the rampart's height
That wreath of mist, in the light
Of the midnight moon? Oh, hist!
It is not a wreath of mist;
It is the Czar, the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

He has heard, among the dead,
The artillery roll o'erhead;
The drums and the tramp of feet
Of his soldiery in the street;
He is awake! the White Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

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He looks from the mountain-chain
Toward the seas, that cleave in twain
The continents; his hand

Points southward o'er the land
Of Roumili! O Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

And the words break from his lips:
"I am the builder of ships,
And my ships shall sail these seas
To the Pillars of Hercules !
I say it; the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

"The Bosphorus shall be free;
It shall make room for me;
And the gates of its water-streets
Be unbarred before my fleets.
I say it; the White Czar,

Batyushka Gosudar!

"And the Christian shall no more Be crushed, as heretofore, Beneath thine iron rule,

O Sultan of Istamboul!

I swear it! I the Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!"

DELIA

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(See p. 450.)

And from ages yet to be
Come the echoes back to me,
O Absalom, my son!

Somewhere at every hour
The watchman on the tower
Looks forth, and sees the fleet
Approach of the hurrying feet
Of messengers, that bear
The tidings of despair.

O Absalom, my son!

He goes forth from the door,
Who shall return no more.
With him our joy departs;
The light goes out in our hearts;
In the Chamber over the Gate
We sit disconsolate.

O Absalom, my son!

That 't is a common grief Bringeth but slight relief; Ours is the bitterest loss, Ours is the heaviest cross; And forever the cry will be "Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son!"

FROM MY ARM-CHAIR

TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE

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