The Three Kings

 The Three Kings

Three Kings come riding from far away,

Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;

Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

And they travelled by night and they slept

by day,

For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful

star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear,

That all the other stars of the sky

Became a white mist in the atmosphere;

And by this they knew that the coming was

near

Of the Prince fortold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,

Three caskets of gold with golden keys;

Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows

Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,

Their turbans like blossoming almond-

trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,

Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,

And sometimes they nodded with beard on

breast,

And sometimes talked, as they paused to

rest,

With the people they met at some wayside

well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,

"Good people, I pray you, tell us

the news,

For we in the East have seen his star,

And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,

To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;

We know of no king but Herod the Great!"

They thought the Wise Men were men

insane,

As they spurred their horses across the plain

Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,

Herod the Great, who had heard this

thing,

Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;

And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,

And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away, and the star stood still,

The only one in the gray of morn;

Yes, it stopped,--it stood still of it's own

free will,

Right over Bethlehem on the hill,

The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate

and the guard,

Through the silent street, till their horses

turned

And neighed as they entered the great

inn-yard;

But the windows were closed, and the doors

were barred,

And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,

The little child in the manger lay,

The Child that would be King one day

Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth,

Sat watching beside his place of rest,

Watching the even flow of his breath,

For the joy of life and the terror of death

Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:

The gold was their tribute to a King;

The frankincense, with its odor sweet,

Was for the Priest, the Paraclete;

The myrrh for the body's buring.

And the mother wondered and bowed her

head,

And sat as still as a statue of stone;

Her heart was troubled yet comforted,

Remembering what the Angel had said

Of an enless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,

With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;

But they went not back to Herod the Great,

For they knew his malice and feared his hate,

And returned to their homes by another

way.

Henery Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)