Past is the time when, bending low 
Druids revered thee, Mistletoe ! 
Error’s broad shades are chased away 
By Revelation’s brilliant ray; 
And superstition can no more 
Bid us a humble plant adore. 
Yet who, in hour of Christmas mirth 
Can place thee o’er the social hearth, 
With ivy and with holly gay, 
Or twine thee with the fragrant bay, 
Nor lift with joy his heart above, 
Nor hymn the notes of praise and love? 
Fair plant ! a mystery thy birth, 
Thou dost not fix thy home on earth; 
Rock’d by the winds, fed by the shower, 
Thy cradle is an airy bower; 
No voice of crime in thy leafy dôme. 
But the song of birds to cheer thine home ! 
From the wilding crab this branch was riven, 
From waving in the breath of heaven ; 
Alas ! alas! they hâve brought it low 
To the dwellings of care, and pain, and woe! 
