Stout emblem of returning peace, The heart’s full gush, and love’s release, Spirits in human fondness flow, And greet the pearly _Mistletoe_. Many a maiden’s cheek is red By lips and laughter thither led; And fluttering bosoms come and go Under the Druid _Mistletoe_. Dear is the memory of a theft When love and youth and joy are left; The passion’s blush, the rose’s glow, Accept the Cupid _Mistletoe_. Oh, happy, tricksome time of mirth, Giv’n to the stars of sky and earth! May all the best of feeling know, The custom of the _Mistletoe_! Spread out the laurel and the bay, For chimney-piece and window gay: Scour the brass gear—a shining row, And holly place with _Mistletoe_. Married and single, proud and free, Yield to the season, trim with glee; Time will not stay—he cheats us, so— A kiss?—’tis gone! _the Mistletoe_. THE MISTLETOE IN AMERICA. “Under the mistletoe-bough;” Not in the far-away British Isles, But here in the West it is glimmering, now,— An exile from home of three thousand miles; And the leaves are as darkly fresh and green, And the berries as crisply waxen white, As they show to-night, in so many a scene, In Old England’s halls of light. Quiet it hangs on the wall, Or pendent droops from the chandelier, As if never a mischief or harm could fall From its modest intrusion, there or here! And yet how many a pulse it has fired, How many a lip made nervously bold, When youthful revel went on, untired, In the Christmas days of old! The lover’s heart might be low, And the love of his lady very high, With no one her inmost heart to know, Or the riddle to read of the haughty eye; But under the mistletoe fairly caught, What maiden coyness or pride could dare To turn from the kisses as sudden as thought And ardent as waiting prayer? “_C’est la première pas qui coûte!_” So they say, in another far-away land; And, the one kiss given, more follow, as fruit, As the dullest can easily understand; And then, of the end to come, who knows, Save the village bells, and the welcome priest, And the sister-maidens, with cheeks like the rose, Who assist at the bridal feast? Methinks, if the shamrock green Is the leaf so dear to an Irish heart, To the mistletoe-berry’s silver sheen England’s love has been owing no minor part; And greenly its stiff-set leaves have twined Round many a tenderest bridal nest, Since that saddest of tales all hearts enshrined In the lay of the “Old Oak Chest.” What matter if centuries long Have hidden a part of the mystery deep That lay in the Druids’ re-echoing song, When it glistened in Stonehenge’s mighty heap? For enough still remains to make sure the truth That it symbolled the great Perennial Good, And they saw from its joints springing Endless Youth That the force of the Ages withstood.