A Non-Natural Christmas

O Christmas hollies! O thrice-blessed morn!
Again with thy dear message art thou come,
A word of joy to thousands, but to some
A fable among fables, 'Christ is born!'
Hold off the hour to which our folly leans,
When priesthood in his own white robe shall stand
Forsworn — amid the faithful evergreens!
A thief — a traitor to his own right hand!
Once perjured and ordain'd, what follows next?
Whene'er, as preacher, to his flock he speaks,
The self-yoked sophist, fretting at his text,
Will rub against its meaning — while the weeks
And months drag on his hollow Christian year —
Woe to faint hearts! we must not falter here.