Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Lynn Bornath and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. [Illustration: THE HOLY FAMILY.] ST. NICHOLAS. VOL. V. DECEMBER, 1877. No. 2. [Copyright, 1877, by Scribner & Co.] THE THREE KINGS. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltazar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they traveled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And the Wise Men knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night over hills and dells, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at the way-side wells. "Of the child that is born," said Baltazar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news, For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews." And the people answered: "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain Like riders in haste who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said: "Go down into Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king." So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn; Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born. 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,-- The child that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human but divine. His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet; The gold was their tribute to a king; The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body's burying.