Arthur Cleveland Coxe

And so we shake The snowy flake From cedar and myrtle fair; And the boughs that nod On the hills of God, We raise to his glory there.

'Tis the night—the night Of the grave's delight, And the warlocks are at their play! Ye think that without, The wild winds shout, But no, it is they—it is they!

'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran; They held—to be free is the birthright of man.

The singing of birds, A warbling band, And flowers, are words Which even a babe may understand.