Chapter 6

The time draws near the birth of Christ The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and good-will, good-will and peace, Peace and good-will, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish'd no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll'd me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touched with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule.

With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;

Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of our night With shower'd largess of delight, In dance and song and game and jest.

Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house;

Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time? They too will die.

With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol'd, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho' every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet. "They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet," And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: "They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change;

"Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather'd power, yet the same Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil."

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born.

_Second Year._

Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possessed the earth, And calmly fell on Christmas-eve:

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost.

As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

Who show'd a token of distress? No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less?

O last regret, regret can die! No--mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry.

_Third Year._

The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist.

A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know.

Like strangers' voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow'd ground.

To-night ungather'd let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger's land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.

Our father's dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone.

No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use.

Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past.

But let no footsteps beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good.

Ring out wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night: Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor; Ring in redress of all mankind.

Ring out the slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in:

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

_Lord Tennyson._

MY SISTER'S SLEEP.

She fell asleep on Christmas-eve: At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain naught else might yet relieve.

Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down did pray.

Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed.

Without there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup.

Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round.

I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp, strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights.

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs.

Our mother rose from where she sat: Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that.

"Glory unto the Newly Born," So as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas-day, Though it would still be long till morn.

Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some one had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

With anxious, softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead--should they Have broken her long-watched-for rest!

She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word; There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little space.

Our mother bowed herself and wept; And both my arms fell, and I said, "God knows I knew that she was dead," And there, all white, my sister slept.

Then kneeling upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock, We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!"

_Dante Gabriel Rossetti._

CHRISTMAS IN EDINBOROUGH.

I.

Sheath'd is the river as it glideth by, Frost-pearl'd are all the boughs of forests old, The sheep are huddling close upon the wold, And over them the stars tremble on high. Pure joys these winter nights around me lie; 'Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets At Christmas-time, and guess from brow and pace The doom and history of each one we meet, What kind of heart beats in each dusky case; Whiles, startled by the beauty of a face In a shop-light a moment. Or instead, To dream of silent fields where calm and deep The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep-- Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead.

_Alexander Smith._

CHRISTMAS IN EDINBOROUGH.

II.

Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas streets, But I am sitting in my silent room, Sitting all silent in congenial gloom To-night, while half the world the other greets With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats, I sit and muse on my poetic doom; Like the dim scent within a budded rose, A joy is folded in my heart; and when I think on poets nurtured 'mong the throes And by the lowly hearths of common men,-- Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode With gorgeous music growing to a close, Deep muffled as the dead-march of a god,-- My heart is burning to be one of those.

_Alexander Smith._

AROUND THE CHRISTMAS LAMP.

The wind may shout as it likes without; It may rage, but cannot harm us; For a merrier din shall resound within, And our Christmas cheer will warm us. There is gladness to all at its ancient call, While its ruddy fires are gleaming, And from far and near, o'er the landscape drear, The Christmas light is streaming.

All the frozen ground is in fetters bound; Ho! the yule-log we will burn it; For Christmas is come in ev'ry home, To summer our hearts will turn it. There is gladness to all at its ancient call, While its ruddy fires are gleaming; And from far and near, o'er the landscape drear, The Christmas light is streaming.

_J. L. Molloy._

CHRISTMAS-EVE.

Alone--with one fair star for company, The loveliest star among the hosts of night, While the gray tide ebbs with the ebbing light-- I pace along the darkening wintry sea. Now round the yule-log and the glittering tree Twinkling with festive tapers, eyes as bright Sparkle with Christmas joys and young delight As each one gathers to his family.

But I--a waif on earth where'er I roam-- Uprooted with life's bleeding hopes and fears, From that one heart that was my heart's sole home, Feel the old pang pierce through the severing years, And as I think upon the years to come, That fair star trembles through my falling tears.

_Mathilde Blind._

WONDERLAND.

Lo! I will make my home In the beautiful Land of Books; Where the friends of childhood roam Through most delightful nooks.

I'll rent the unfinished floor In Aladdin's palace built, Whose walls, to the outer door, Are ivory and gilt.

And the Caliph--Haroun--there Will pass in his deft disguise; But him I'll know by his air So grand, and his eagle eyes.

And Cinderella, too, Will weep when her sisters whip her: And I'll be the Prince--or you-- Who will find her crystal slipper.

And O, what fun it will be With Robin the Bobbin to feast, Or to frequently call and see The Beauty and the Beast.

For she and you and I And the Rusty Dusty Miller Will eat of a Christmas-Pie With Jack the Giant-Killer.

Then come, let us make our homes In the most frequented nooks Of the land of elves and gnomes, In the beautiful Land of Books!

_Charles Henry Lüders._

WAITING.

As little children in a darkened hall At Christmas-tide await the opening door, Eager to tread the fairy-haunted floor Around the tree with goodly gifts for all, Oft in the darkness to each other call,-- Trying to guess their happiness before-- Or knowing elders eagerly implore To tell what fortune unto them may fall,--

So wait we in time's dim and narrow room, And, with strange fancies or another's thought, Try to divine before the curtain rise The wondrous scene; forgetting that the gloom Must shortly flee from what the ages sought,-- The Father's long-planned gift of Paradise.

_C. H. Crandall._

AUNT MARY.

A CORNISH CHRISTMAS CHANT.

Now of all the trees by the king's highway, Which do you love the best? O! the one that is green upon Christmas-day, The bush with the bleeding breast. Now the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our dear Aunt Mary's tree.

Its leaves are sweet with our Saviour's name, 'Tis a plant that loves the poor: Summer and winter it shines the same Beside the cottage door. O! the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our kind Aunt Mary's tree.

'Tis a bush that the birds will never leave: They sing in it all day long; But sweetest of all upon Christmas-eve Is to hear the robin's song. 'Tis the merriest sound upon earth and sea: For it comes from our own Aunt Mary's tree.

So, of all that grow by the king's highway, I love that tree the best; 'Tis a bower for the birds upon Christmas-day, The bush of the bleeding breast. O! the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our sweet Aunt Mary's tree.

_Robert Stephen Hawker._

THE GLAD NEW DAY.

And why should not that land rejoice, And darkness flee away, When on its dim, benighted hills Has dawned the glad new day? For now behold the shepherds go, The wondrous babe to see; Ah, then methinks that all around Was one grand jubilee!

Rejoice, ye nations blest with peace, Let all the earth be glad; The Prince of Peace comes down to-day, In robes of pity clad. Yea, thus should all mankind rejoice On this glad day of love; But yet, alas! how far we are From those blest heights above!

Ah! for the time when men shall spend This day as all men should, When angels shall with joy attend, And dwell among the good. Then will this earth an Eden be, A Paradise of love; And all shall know the perfect bliss Of those bright realms above.

_Thomas Moore._

UNDER THE HOLLY BOUGH.

Ye who have scorned each other In this fast fading year, Or wronged a friend or brother, Come gather humbly here: Let sinned against and sinning Forget their strife's beginning, Be links no longer broken Beneath the holly bough, Be sweet forgiveness spoken Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have loved each other In this fast fading year, Sister, or friend, or brother, Come gather happy here: And let your hearts grow fonder As mem'ry glad shall ponder Old loves and later wooing Beneath the holly bough, So sweet in their renewing Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness In this fast fading year, Estranged from joy and gladness, Come gather hopeful here: No more let useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow; Come join in our embraces Beneath the holly bough; Take heart, uncloud your faces Beneath the holly bough.

_Charles Mackay._

THE DAWN OF CHRISTMAS.

Acold it is and middle night: The moon looks down the snow, As if an angel, clad in white, Carried her lanthorn so That, going forth the streets of light, She made an earthward glow.

A drift enfolds the chapel eaves Like downy coverlet; And, garnered into whited sheaves, The graves are harvest-set Waiting the yeoman. All the panes Are rich with rimy fret.

The sexton mounts the outer stair Where chilly sparrows cower-- And bells ring down the winter air From forth the snowy tower; For, muffled deep in drift, the clock Hath struck the Christmas hour.

And over barn, and buried stack, And out the naked copse, And where the owl sits plump and black Amid the chestnut tops-- The branches echo back the bells, Like dulcet organ stops.

For blast of wind and creak of bough And rustle of the frost, And winter's inner voice--avow The holy hour is crossed, And far, mysterious music sounds, Sweet like a harping host.

_H. S. M._

BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.

Between the moonlight and the fire, In winter evenings long ago, What ghosts I raised at your desire, To make your leaping blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we grow! What Christmas ghost can make us chill-- Save these that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will?

The beasts can talk in barn and byre On Christmas-eve, old legends know. As one by one the years retire, We men fall silent then, I trow-- Such sights has memory to show, Such voices from the distance thrill. Ah me! they come with Christmas snow, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Oh, children of the village choir, Your carols on the midnight throw! Oh, bright across the mist and mire, Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow! Beat back the shades, beat down the woe, Renew the strength of mortal will; Be welcome, all, to come or go, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Friend, _sursum corda_, soon or slow We part, like guests who've joyed their fill; Forget them not, nor mourn them so, The ghosts we all can raise at will!

_Andrew Lang._

THE VILLAGE CHRISTMAS.

Meantime the village rouses up the fire: While well attested, and as well believed, Heard solemn, goes the goblin story round, Till superstitious horror creeps o'er all. Or, frequent in the sounding hall, they wake The rural gambol. Rustic mirth goes round; The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart, Easily pleased; the long, loud laugh, sincere; The kiss, snatched hasty from the side-long maid, On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep; The leap, the slap, the haul; and, shook to notes Of native music, the respondent dance, Thus jocund fleets with them the winter-night.

_James Thomson._

WINTER.

A wrinkled, crabbéd man they picture thee, Old winter, with a rugged beard as gray As the long moss upon the apple-tree; Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose, Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old winter! seated in thy great armed-chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night; Pausing at times to rouse the smouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.

_Robert Southey._

DECEMBER.

And after him came next the chill December: Yet he, through merry feasting which he made, And great bonfires, did not the cold remember; His Saviour's birth his mind so much did glad: Upon a shaggy-bearded goat he rode, The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender years, They say, was nourisht by th' Idæan Mayd; And in his hand a broad deep bowle he beares, Of which he freely drinks an health to all his peeres.

_Edmund Spenser._

CHRISTMAS WEATHER IN SCOTLAND.

A winter day! the feather-silent snow Thickens the air with strange delight, and lays A fairy carpet on the barren lea. No sun, yet all around that inward light Which is in purity,--a soft moonshine, The silvery dimness of a happy dream. How beautiful! afar on moorland ways, Bosomed by mountains, darkened by huge glens, (Where the lone altar raised by Druid hands Stands like a mournful phantom,) hidden clouds Let fall soft beauty, till each green fir branch Is plumed and tasselled, till each heather stalk Is delicately fringed. The sycamores, Through all their mystical entanglement Of boughs, are draped with silver. All the green Of sweet leaves playing with the subtle air In dainty murmuring; the obstinate drone Of limber bees that in the monk's-hood bells House diligent; the imperishable glow Of summer sunshine never more confessed The harmony of nature, the divine, Diffusive spirit of the beautiful. Out in the snowy dimness, half revealed Like ghosts in glimpsing moonshine, wildly run The children in bewildering delight. There is a living glory in the air,-- A glory in the hushed air, in the soul A palpitating wonder hushed in awe.

Softly--with delicate softness--as the light Quickens in the undawned east; and silently-- With definite silence--as the stealing dawn Dapples the floating clouds, slow fall, slow fall, With indecisive motion eddying down, The white-winged flakes,--calm as the sleep of sound, Dim as a dream. The silver-misted air Shines with mild radiance, as when through a cloud Of semilucent vapor shines the moon. I saw last evening (when the ruddy sun, Enlarged and strange, sank low and visibly, Spreading fierce orange o'er the west) a scene Of winter in his milder mood. Green fields, Which no kine cropped, lay damp; and naked trees Threw skeleton shadows. Hedges, thickly grown, Twined into compact firmness, with no leaves, Trembled in jewelled fretwork as the sun To lustre touched the tremulous water-drops. Alone, nor whistling as his fellows do In fabling poem and provincial song, The ploughboy shouted to his reeking train; And at the clamor, from a neighboring field Arose, with whirr of wings, a flock of rooks More clamorous; and through the frosted air, Blown wildly here and there without a law, They flew, low-grumbling out loquacious croaks. Red sunset brightened all things; streams ran red Yet coldly; and before the unwholesome east, Searching the bones and breathing ice, blew down The hill, with a dry whistle, by the fire In chamber twilight rested I at home.