With “sweets for the sweet” is the Christmas tree laden,
With mottoes and trinkets for youth and for maiden:
Oh, how bright are the smiles of those ladies so fair,
As they gather the fruits that are clustering there.
The firs and the laurels their branches entwine,
The glistening leaves of the green holly shine,
Its numberless berries, so brilliantly red,
Are seen all around us, while, high over head,
The delicate mistletoe trembles!—but now
Its spell is forgotten!—The mistletoe bough
No longer can call the quick flush to the face,
Its province no more is the “dangerous place.”
Yet where is the change? Its green leaves are as bright,
Its form is as graceful, its berries as white,
As when held so sacred, in temples of old,
By our Druid forefathers, as I have been told;
Or witness’d the timid or boisterous kiss
Once claim’d for its sake at such seasons as this.
I have heard that young ladies are oftener now
Kiss’d under the rose than the mistletoe bough:
For the kiss is more sweet given under its shade;
More earnest and true are the vows that are made
By the rose-tree so sweet that in fancy grows,
And ’tis fair summer weather still under that rose:
These mystical roses throughout all the year
The-u. delicate buds and sweet blossoms uprear,
With a lovelier tint and more exquisite hue
Than yet ever in field or in garden grew:
And I'm told that young ladies would rather be now
Kiss’d under the rose than the mistletoe bough.