Chapter 7

But now what revelation of fair change, O Giver of the seasons and the days! Creator of all elements, pale mists, Invisible great winds and exact frost! How shall I speak the wonder of thy snow? What though we know its essence and its birth, Can quick expound, in philosophic wise, The how, and whence, and manner of its fall; Yet, oh, the inner beauty and the life-- The life that is in snow! The virgin-soft And utter purity of the down-flake, Falling upon its fellow with no sound! Unblown by vulgar winds, innumerous flakes Fall gently, with the gentleness of love! The earth is cherished, for beneath the soft, Pure uniformity is gently born Warmth and rich mildness, fitting the dead roots For the resuscitation of the spring. Now while I write, the wonder clothes the vale, Calmed every wind and loaded every grove; And looking through the implicated boughs I see a gleaming radiance. Sparkling snow, Refined by morning-footed frost so still, Mantles each bough; and such a windless hush Breathes through the air, it seems the fairy glen About some phantom palace, pale abode Of fabled Sleeping Beauty. Songless birds Flit restlessly about the breathless wood, Waiting the sudden breaking of the charm; And as they quickly spring on nimble wing From the white twig, a sparkling shower falls Starlike. It is not whiteness, but a clear Outshining of all purity, which takes The winking eyes with such a silvery gleam. No sunshine, and the sky is all one cloud. The vale seems lonely, ghostlike; while aloud The housewife's voice is heard with doubled sound. I have not words to speak the perfect show; The ravishment of beauty; the delight Of silent purity; the sanctity Of inspiration which o'erflows the world, Making it breathless with divinity.

So thus with fair delapsion softly falls The sacred shower; and when the shortened day Dejected dies in the low streaky west, The rising moon displays a cold blue night, And keen as steel the east wind sprinkles ice. Thicker than bees, about the waxing moon Gather the punctual stars. Huge whitened hills Rise glimmering to the blue verge of the night, Ghostlike, and striped with narrow glens of firs Black-waving, solemn. O'er the Luggie-stream Gathers a veiny film of ice, and creeps With elfin feet around each stone and reed, Working fine masonry; while o'er the dam, Dashing, a noise of waters fills the clear And nitrous air. All the dark, wintry hours Sharply the winds from the white level moors Keen whistle. Timorous in his homely bed The school-boy listens, fearful lest gaunt wolves Or beasts, whose uncouth forms in ancient books He has beheld, at creaking shutters pull Howling. And when at last the languid dawn In wind redness re-illumines the east With ineffectual fire, an intense blue Severely vivid o'er the snowy hills Gleams chill, while hazy, half-transparent clouds Slow-range the freezing ether of the west. Along the woods the keenly vehement blasts Wail, and disrobe the mantled boughs, and fling A snow-dust everywhere. Thus wears the day: While grandfather over the well-watched fire Hangs cowering, with a cold drop at his nose.

Now underneath the ice the Luggie growls, And to the polished smoothness curlers come Rudely ambitious. Then for happy hours The clinking stones are slid from wary hands, And Barleycorn, best wine for surly airs, Bites i' th' mouth, and ancient jokes are cracked. And oh, the journey homeward, when the sun, Low-rounding to the west, in ruddy glow Sinks large, and all the amber-skirted clouds, His flaming retinue, with dark'ning glow Diverge! The broom is brandished as the sign Of conquest, and impetuously they boast Of how this shot was played,--with what a bend Peculiar--the perfection of all art-- That stone came rolling grandly to the Tee With victory crowned, and flinging wide the rest In lordly crash! Within the village inn They by the roaring chimney sit, and quaff The beaded Usqueba with sugar dashed. O, when the precious liquid fires the brain To joy, and every heart beats fast with mirth And ancient fellowship, what nervy grasps Of horny hands o'er tables of rough oak! What singing of Lang Syne till tear-drops shine, And friendships brighten as the evening wanes!

_David Gray._

SIR GALAHAD.

When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail.

_Lord Tennyson._

A THOUGHT FOR THE TIME.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah! would't were so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at passéd joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbéd sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

_John Keats._

BALLADE OF THE WINTER FIRESIDE.

An ingle-blaze and a steaming jug; A lamp and a lazy book; And, deep in a doubled, downy rug Your feet to the warmest nook. And wherever the eye may crook, A print or a tumbled tome-- For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

What though the traveller toil and tug Where sleety drifts be shook? What though i' the churchyard graves be dug; And sweethearts be forsook? A hearth, and a careful cook, And cares may go or come! For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

But--curtains down and an elbow hug; A maid that comes to a look; A boy to carry a rimy log From over the frozen brook-- And, a fig for the cawing rook, Or ghosts in the ruddy gloam! For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

_Envoi._

And yet--or I be mistook-- To a friend the cup should foam; For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

_H. S. M._

A CATCH BY THE HEARTH.

Sing we all merrily Christmas is here, The day that we love best Of days in the year.

Bring forth the holly, The box, and the bay, Deck out our cottage For glad Christmas-day.

Sing we all merrily, Draw round the fire, Sister and brother, Grandson and sire.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

_H. Carey._

LITTLE MOTHER.

A GERMAN FANCY.

Little mother, why must you go? The children play by the white bedside, The world is merry for Christmas-tide, And what would you do in the falling snow?

They sleep by now in the ember-glow, Hushed to dream in a child's delight, For wonders happen on Christmas night: Little mother, why must you go?

The flakes fall and the night grows late. Oh, slender figure and small wet feet, Where do you haste through the lamp-lit street, And out and away by the fortress gate?

It is drear and chill where the dear lie dead, Yet light enough with the snow to see; But what would you do with that Christmas-tree At the tiny mound that is baby's bed?

A Christmas-tree with its tinsel gold! Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee, When the children sleep in their dream of glee, Poor little grave but a twelvemonth old!

Little mother, your heart is brave, You kiss the cross in the drifted snow, Kneel for a moment, rise and go And leave your tree by the tiny grave.

While the living slept by the warm fireside, And flakes fell white on your Christmas toy, I think that its angel wept for joy Because you remembered the one that died.

_Rennell Rodd._

OCCIDENT AND ORIENT.

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas-day? A northern Christmas, such as painters love, And kinsfolk shaking hands but once a year, And dames who tell old legends by the fire? Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearléd ice, Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, And makes the old man merry with the young Through the short sunshine, through the longer night?

Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist, And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, And rose-buds mouldering on the dripping porch; On twilight, without rise or set of sun, Till beetles drone along the hollow lane And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then, At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, And shadows sweeping on from down to down Before the salt Atlantic gale! Yet come In whatsoever garb, or gay or sad, Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas-day.

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas-day? To sailors lounging on the lonely deck Beneath the rushing trade-wind? or, to him Who by some noisome harbor of the east Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales, Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning, Himself half heathen? How to those--brave hearts! Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, To free a tyrant's captives? How to those-- New patriarchs of the new-found under world-- Who stand like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, And count their flocks' increase? To them that day Shall dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze Of full midsummer sun: to them that morn Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft Shall tell of naught but summer; but to them, Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, They spring into the saddle, thrills may come From that great heart of Christendom which beats Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth; Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home, Of wise words, learnt beside their mother's knee; Of innocent faces, upturned once again In awe and joy to listen to the tale Of God made man, and in a manger laid: May soften, purify, and raise the soul From selfish cares, and growing lust of gain And phantoms of this dream, which some call life, Toward eternal facts; for here or there Summer or winter, 'twill be Christmas-day.

Blest day, which aye reminds us year by year What 'tis to be a man: to curb and spurn The tyrant in us: that ignobler self Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, No purpose, save its share in that wild war In which, through countless ages, living things Compete in internecine greed--ah, God! Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord? That we are brutes, great God, we know too well: Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flaunt Their plumes, unheeding of the fowler's step; Spiders who catch with paper, not with webs; Tigers who slay with cannon and sharp steel, Instead of teeth and claws; all these we are. Are we no more than these save in degree? No more than these; and born but to compete-- To envy and devour, like beast or herb Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts, Taking the sword to perish with the sword Upon the universal battle-field, Even as the things upon the moor outside?

The heath eats up green grass and delicate flowers, The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch; And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, Eats what he lists;--the strong eat up the weak; The many eat the few; great nations, small; And he who cometh in the name of all Shall, greediest, triumph by the greed of all; And armed by his own victims, eat up all. While even out of the eternal heavens Looks patient down the great magnanimous God Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice All to himself. Nay, but himself to one Who taught mankind on that first Christmas-day What 'twas to be a man: to give not take; To serve not rule; to nourish not devour; To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live.

Oh, blessed day which givest the eternal lie To self and sense and all the brute within; Oh, come to us, amid this war of life, To hall and hovel, come, to all who toil In senate, shop, or study; and to those Who sundered by the wastes of half a world Ill warned, and sorely tempted, ever face Nature's brute powers and men unmanned to brutes, Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas-day. Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem, The kneeling shepherds and the Babe Divine, And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas-day.

_Charles Kingsley._

THE BLESSED DAY.

Awake, my soul, and come away: Put on thy best array; Lest if thou longer stay Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day. Go run And bid good-morrow to the sun; Welcome his safe return To Capricorn, And that great morn Wherein a God was born, Whose story none can tell But He whose every word's a miracle.

To-day Almightiness grew weak; The Word itself was mute and could not speak.

That Jacob's star which made the sun To dazzle if he durst look on, Now mantled o'er in Bethlehem's night, Borrowed a star to show Him light! He that begirt each zone, To whom both poles are one, Who grasped the zodiac in His hand And made it move or stand, Is now by nature man, By stature but a span; Eternity is now grown short; A King is born without a court; The water thirsts; the fountain's dry; And life, being born, made apt to die.

_Chorus._

Then let our praises emulate and vie With His humility! Since He's exiled from skies That we might rise,-- From low estate of men Let's sing Him up again! Each man wind up his heart To bear a part In that angelic choir and show His glory high as He was low. Let's sing towards men good-will and charity, Peace upon earth, glory to God on high! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

_Jeremy Taylor._

CHRISTMAS IN CUBA.

On the hill-side droops the palm, The air is faint with flowers, In the wondrous, dream-like calm Of tropical morning hours. Like a mirror lies the bay, And softly on its breast, In the glow of coming day, The vessels sway at rest.

Through the tremulous air I hear The chiming of Christmas bells, As the sun rises burning and clear Over the ocean swells. And birds with singing sweet Proclaim the glorious morn When angels thronged to greet The Christ-child newly born.

But with strong desire I sigh For a frozen land afar, Under a cold gray sky, Where glistens the northern star; Where a winter of rest and sleep Embraces mountain and plain, And meadows their secret keep To tell it in spring again.

Dearer the pine-clad hills And valleys wrapped in snow, Dearer the ice-bound rills, And roaring winds that blow, Than this tropical calm, and perfume Of jasmine and lily and rose, These flowers that always bloom, This nature without repose.

Alas for the delight Of a distant fireside, Where loving hearts unite To keep this Christmas-tide! Where the hemlock and the pine Sweet memories recall, As their fragrant boughs entwine Around the panelled wall.

O Christ-child pure and fair, Draw near and dwell with me; Thy love is everywhere, On land and on the sea. I grasp Thy saving hand, And while to Thee I pray, Alone, in a foreign land, I bless this Christmas-day.

_Helen S. Conant._

FAREWELL TO CHRISTMAS.

Now farewell, good Christmas, Adieu and adieu, I needs now must leave thee, And look for a new; For till thou returnest, I linger in pain, And I care not how quickly Thou comest again.

But ere thou departest, I purpose to see What merry good pastime This day will show me; For a king of the wassail This night we must choose, Or else the old customs We carelessly lose.

The wassail well spiced About shall go round, Though it cost my good master Best part of a pound: The maid in the buttery Stands ready to fill Her nappy good liquor With heart and good-will.

And to welcome us kindly Our master stands by, And tells me in friendship One tooth is a-dry. Then let us accept it As lovingly, friends; And so for this Twelfth-day My carol here ends.

_New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1661._

THE NEW YEAR.

Hark, the cock crows, and yon bright star Tells us the day himself's not far; And see where, breaking from the night, He gilds the western hills with light. With him old Janus doth appear, Peeping into the future year, With such a look, as seems to say, The prospect is not good that way. Thus do we rise ill sights to see, And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy; When the prophetic fear of things A more tormenting mischief brings, More full of soul-tormenting gall, Than direst mischiefs can befall. But stay! but stay! methinks my sight, Better inform'd by clearer light, Discerns sereneness in that brow, That all contracted seem'd but now. His reversed face may show distaste, And frown upon the ills are past; But that which this way looks is clear, And smiles upon the new-born year.

He looks, too, from a place so high, The year lies open to his eye; And all the moments open are To the exact discoverer. Yet more and more he smiles upon The happy revolution. Why should we then suspect or fear The influences of a year, So smiles upon us the first morn, And speaks us good as soon as born? Plague on't! the last was ill enough, This cannot but make better proof; Or, at the worst, as we brush'd through The last, why so we may this too; And then the next in reason should Be superexcellently good: For the worst ills (we daily see) Have no more perpetuity Than the best fortunes that do fall; Which also bring us wherewithal Longer their being to support Than those do of the other sort; And who has one good year in three, And yet repines at destiny, Appears ungrateful in the case, And merits not the good he has.

Then let us welcome the new guest With lusty brimmers of the best; Mirth always should good fortune meet, And render e'en disaster sweet; And though the princess turn her back, Let us but line ourselves with sack, We better shall by far hold out Till the next year she face about.

_Charles Cotton._

A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

The old year now away is fled, The new year it is enteréd, Then let us now our sins down-tread And joyfully all appear. Let's merry be this holiday, And let us now both sport and play, Hang sorrow, let's cast care away: God send you a happy New Year!

For Christ's circumcision this day we keep, Who for our sins did often weep; His hands and feet were wounded deep, And His blessed side with a spear. His head they crownéd then with thorn, And at Him they did laugh and scorn, Who for to save our souls was born: God send us a happy New Year!

And now with New-Year's gifts each friend Unto each other they do send; God grant we may all our lives amend, And that the truth may appear. Now like the snake cast off your skin Of evil thoughts and wicked sin, And to amend this New Year begin: God send us a happy New Year!

And now let all the company In friendly manner all agree, For we are here welcome, all may see, Unto this jolly good cheer. I thank my master and my dame, The which are founders of the same; To eat, to drink now is no shame: God send us a merry New Year!

Come, lads and lasses every one, Jack, Tom, Dick, Bessy, Mary, and Joan, Let's cut the meat up unto the bone, For welcome you need not fear; And here for good liquor we shall not lack, It will whet my brains and strengthen my back; This jolly good cheer it must go to wrack: God send us a merry New Year!

Come, give's more liquor when I do call, I'll drink to each one in this hall; I hope that so loud I must not bawl, But unto me lend an ear; Good fortune to my master send, And to my dame which is our friend, Lord bless us all, and so I end: God send us a happy New Year!

_New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1642._

NEW-YEAR'S GIFTS.

The young men and maids on New-Year's day, Their loves they will present With many a gift both fine and gay, Which gives them true content: And though the gift be great or small, Yet this is the custom still, Expressing their loves in ribbons and gloves, It being their kind good-will.

Young bachelors will not spare their coin, But thus their love is shown; Young Richard will buy a bodkin fine And give it honest Joan. There's Nancy and Sue with honest Prue, Young damsels both fair and gay, Will give to the men choice presents again For the honor of New-Year's day.

Fine ruffs, cravats of curious lace, Maids give them fine and neat; For this the young men will them embrace With tender kisses sweet: And give them many pleasant toys To deck them fine and gay, As bodkins and rings with other fine things For the honor of New-Year's day.

It being the first day of the year, To make the old amends, All those that have it will dress good cheer, Inviting all their friends To drink great James's royal health, As very well subjects may, With many healths more, which we have store, For the honor of New-Year's day.

_A Cabinet of Choice Jewels, A.D. 1688._

THE END OF THE PLAY.

The play is done; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell; A moment yet the actor stops And looks around to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.

One word ere yet the evening ends; Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas-time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That fate erelong shall bid you play; Good-night! with honest, gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses or who wins the prize, Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays); The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days; The shepherds heard it overhead, The joyful angels raised it then; Glory to heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men.

My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still-- Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

_William Makepeace Thackeray._

FINIS.