Part 9
A myriad wax candles twinkled in the gloom, but did not dispel it. It lingered under the great arches where the voice of the venerable minister, the responses of the congregation, and above it all the boyish treble of the choir, billowed and strove, now dreamingly with the memories of ages past, now sharply, tossed from angle to corner in the stone walls, and again in long thunderous echoes sweeping all before it on the triumphant strains of the organ, like a victorious army with banners crowding through the halls of time. So it sounded to me as sleep gently tugged at my eyelids. The air grew heavy with the smell of evergreens and of burning wax, and as the thunder of war drew farther and farther away, in the shadow of the great pillars stirred the phantoms of mailed knights whose names were hewn in the gravestones there. We youngsters clung to the skirts of mother as we went out and the great doors fell to behind us. And yet those Christmas eves, with mother's gentle eyes forever inseparable from them, and with the glad cries of "Merry Christmas!" ringing all about, have left a touch of sweet peace in my heart which all the years have not effaced, nor ever will....
When Ansgarius preached the White Christ to the vikings of the North, so runs the legend of the Christmas-tree, the Lord sent his three messengers, Faith, Hope, and Love, to help light the first tree. Seeking one that should be high as hope, wide as love, and that bore the sign of the cross on every bough, they chose the balsam fir, which best of all the trees in the forest met the requirements.... Wax candles are the only real thing for a Christmas-tree, candles of wax that mingle their perfume with that of the burning fir, not the by-product of some coal-oil or other abomination. What if the boughs do catch fire? They can be watched, and too many candles are tawdry, anyhow. Also, red apples, oranges, and old-fashioned cornucopias made of colored paper, and made at home, look a hundred times better and fitter in the green; and so do drums and toy trumpets and wald-horns, and a rocking-horse reined up in front that need not have cost forty dollars, or anything like it.
I am thinking of one, or rather two, a little piebald team with a wooden seat between, for which mother certainly did not give over seventy-five cents at the store, that as "Belcher and Mamie"--the name was bestowed on the beasts at sight by Kate, aged three, who bossed the play-room--gave a generation of romping children more happiness than all the expensive railroads and trolley-cars and steam engines that are considered indispensable to keeping Christmas nowadays. And the Noah's Ark with Noah and his wife and all the animals that went two by two--ah, well, I haven't set out to preach a sermon on extravagance that makes no one happier, but I wish--The legend makes me think of the holly that grew in our Danish woods. We called it "Christ-thorn," for to us it was of that the crown of thorns was made with which the cruel soldiers mocked our Saviour, and the red berries were the drops of blood that fell from his anguished brow. Therefore the holly was a sacred tree, and to this day the woods in which I find it seem to me like the forest where the Christmas roses bloomed in the night when the Lord was born, different from all other woods, and better.
JACOB RIIS in _The Old Town_
The Mahogany Tree
Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we: Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The mahogany tree.
Once on the boughs, Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night-birds are we: Here we carouse Singing, like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short-- When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust! We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate: Let the dog wait: Happy we'll be! Drink every one; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup.-- Friend, art afraid? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite, Leave us to-night, Round the old tree.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The Holly and the Ivy
The Holly and the Ivy, Now both are full well grown; Of all the trees that spring in wood, The Holly bears the crown. The Holly bears a blossom, As white as lily flow'r; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, To be our sweet Saviour, _To be our sweet Saviour_.
The Holly bears a berry, As red as any blood; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, To do poor sinners good. The Holly bears a prickle, As sharp as any thorn; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, On Christmas day in the morn, _On Christmas day in the morn_.
The Holly bears a bark, As bitter as any gall; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, For to redeem us all. The Holly and the Ivy, Now both are full well grown; Of all the trees that spring in wood, The Holly bears the crown, _The Holly bears the crown_.
_Old English Song_
Ballade of Christmas Ghosts
Between the moonlight and the fire, In winter twilights long ago, What ghosts we raised for your desire, To make your merry blood run slow; How old, how grave, how wise we grow, No Christmas ghost can make us chill, Save those 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 year by year the years retire; We men fall silent then, I trow; Such sights hath memory to show, Such voices from the silence thrill, Such shapes return 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 dread, beat down the woe, Let's cheerily descend the hill; Be welcome all, to come or go, The ghosts we all can raise at will!
ENVOY
Friend, sursum corda, soon and 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
_By permission of Longmans, Green, & Co., London, and Charles Scribner's Sons, New York._
Christmas Treasures
I count my treasures o'er with care,-- The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair.
Long years ago this holy time, My little one--my all to me-- Sat robed in white upon my knee And heard the merry Christmas chime.
"Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright,-- What treasure for my boy?" I said.
And then he named this little toy, While in his round and mournful eyes There came a look of sweet surprise, That spake his quiet, trustful joy.
And as he lisped his evening prayer He asked the boon with childish grace, Then, toddling to the chimney place, He hung this little stocking there.
That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With singing to our lowly home And kiss my darling as he slept.
They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn, with rapturous face, He toddled to the chimney-place, And found this little treasure there.
They came again one Christmas-tide,-- That angel host, so fair and white! And singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side.
A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A watching for my baby boy!
But if again that angel train And golden-head come back for me, To bear me to Eternity, My watching will not be in vain!
From _A Little Book of Western Verse_; copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field; published by Charles Scribner's Sons
Wassailer's Song
Wassail! wassail! all over the town, Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown; Our bowl is made of a maplin tree; We be good fellows all;--I drink to thee.
Here's to our horse, and to his right ear, God send master a happy new year; A happy new year as e'er he did see,-- With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.
Here's to our mare, and to her right eye, God send our mistress a good Christmas pie; A good Christmas pie as e'er I did see,-- With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.
Here's to our cow, and to her long tail, God send our master us never may fail Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near, And our jolly wassail it's then you shall hear.
Be here any maids? I suppose here be some; Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone! Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin, And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.
Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best; I hope your sould in heaven will rest; But if you do bring us a bowl of the small, Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
VI
CHRISTMAS HYMNS
A Hymn on the Nativity While Shepherds Watched O, Little Town of Bethlehem The First, Best Christmas Night It Came upon the Midnight Clear A Christmas Hymn The Song of the Shepherds A Christmas Hymn A Christmas Hymn for Children Slumber-Songs of the Madonna
Hark! the herald angels sing, "Glory to the new-born King! Peace on earth, and mercy mild; God and sinners reconciled."
CHARLES WESLEY
A Hymn on the Nativity
I sing the birth was born to-night, The author both of life and light; The angels so did sound it. And like the ravished shepherds said, Who saw the light, and were afraid, Yet searched, and true they found it.
The Son of God, th' Eternal King, That did us all salvation bring, And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven and earth did make, Was now laid in a manger.
The Father's wisdom willed it so, The Son's obedience knew no No, Both wills were in one stature; And as that wisdom had decreed, The Word was now made Flesh indeed, And took on Him our nature.
What comfort by Him do we win, Who made Himself the price of sin, To make us heirs of Glory! To see this babe, all innocence, A martyr born in our defence: Can man forget this story?
BEN JONSON
While Shepherds Watched
While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The Angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.
"Fear not," said he (for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind); "Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.
"To you in David's town this day Is born of David's line The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord; And this shall be the sign:
"The heavenly Babe you there shall find To human view display'd, All meanly wrapt in swathing-bands, And in a manger laid."
Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith Appear'd a shining throng Of angels praising God, and thus Address'd their joyful song:
"All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace; Good-will henceforth from heaven to men Begin, and never cease!"
NAHUM TATE
O, Little Town of Bethlehem
O, little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night.
For Christ is born of Mary; And gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love! O, morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.
O, holy Child of Bethlehem! Descend to us, we pray! Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born to us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great, glad tidings tell; O, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel.
PHILLIPS BROOKS
The First, Best Christmas Night
Like small curled feathers, white and soft, The little clouds went by, Across the moon, and past the stars, And down the western sky: In upland pastures, where the grass With frosted dew was white, Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay, That first, best Christmas night.
The shepherds slept; and, glimmering faint, With twist of thin, blue smoke, Only their fire's cracking flames The tender silence broke-- Save when a young lamb raised his head, Or, when the night wind blew, A nesting bird would softly stir, Where dusky olives grew--
With finger on her solemn lip, Night hushed the shadowy earth, And only stars and angels saw The little Saviour's birth; Then came such flash of silver light Across the bending skies, The wondering shepherds woke, and hid Their frightened, dazzled eyes!
And all their gentle sleepy flock Looked up, then slept again, Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars Brought endless peace to men-- Nor even heard the gracious words That down the ages ring-- "The Christ is born! the Lord has come, Good-will on earth to bring!"
Then o'er the moonlit, misty fields, Dumb with the world's great joy, The shepherds sought the white-walled town, Where lay the baby boy-- And oh, the gladness of the world, The glory of the skies, Because the longed-for Christ looked up In Mary's happy eyes!
MARGARET DELAND in _The Old Garden and Other Verses_
_By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company_
It Came upon the Midnight Clear
It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: Peace to the earth, good-will to men, From heaven's all gracious King. The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come, With peaceful wings unfurled; And still their heavenly music floats O'er all the weary world: Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-sounds The blessed angels sing.
Yet with the woes of sin and strife The world has suffered long. Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong; And man at war with man hears not The love-song that they bring; Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing.
O ye beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way, With painful steps and slow, Look now! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing: Oh, rest beside the weary road, And hear the angels sing.
For lo! the days are hastening on, By prophet bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold; When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendours fling, And the whole world send back the song Which now the angels sing.
EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS
A Christmas Hymn
Sing, Christmas bells! Say to the earth this is the morn Whereon our Saviour-King is born; Sing to all men,--the bond, the free, The rich, the poor, the high, the low, The little child that sports in glee, The aged folk that tottering go,-- Proclaim the morn That Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host! Sing of the star that God has placed Above the manger in the east; Sing of the glories of the night, The Virgin's sweet humility, The Babe with kingly robes bedight,-- Sing to all men where'er they be This Christmas morn; For Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me.
Sing, sons of earth! O ransomed seed of Adam, sing! God liveth, and we have a king! The curse is gone, the bond are free,-- By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed, By all the heavenly signs that be, We know that Israel is redeemed; That on this morn The Christ is born That saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart! Sing thou in rapture this dear morn Whereon the blessed Prince is born! And as thy songs shall be of love, So let my deeds be charity,-- By the dear Lord that reigns above, By Him that died upon the tree, By this fair morn Whereon is born The Christ that saveth all and me!
From _A Little Book of Western Verse_; copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field; published by Charles Scribner's Sons
The Song of the Shepherds
It was near the first cock-crowing, And Orion's wheel was going, When an angel stood before us and our hearts were sore afraid. Lo! his face was like the lightning, When the walls of heaven are whitening, And he brought us wondrous tidings of a joy that should not fade.
Then a Splendor shone around us, In a still field where he found us, A-watch upon the Shepherd Tower and waiting for the light; There where David, as a stripling, Saw the ewes and lambs go rippling Down the little hills and hollows at the falling of the night.
Oh, what tender, sudden faces Filled the old familiar places, The barley-fields, where Ruth of old went gleaning with the birds. Down the skies the host came swirling, Like sea-waters white and whirling, And our hearts were strangely shaken by the wonder of their words.
Haste, O people: all are bidden-- Haste from places high or hidden: In Mary's Child the Kingdom comes, the heaven in beauty bends! He has made all life completer, He has made the Plain Way sweeter, For the stall is His first shelter, and the cattle His first friends.
He has come! the skies are telling: He has quit the glorious dwelling; And first the tidings came to us, the humble shepherd folk. He has come to field and manger, And no more is God a Stranger: He comes as Common Man at home with cart and crookèd yoke.
As the shadow of a cedar To a traveler in gray Kedar Will be the kingdom of His love, the kingdom without end. Tongue and ages may disclaim Him, Yet the Heaven of heavens will name Him Lord of prophets, Light of nations, elder Brother, tender Friend.
EDWIN MARKHAM in _Lincoln and Other Poems_
_By permission_
A Christmas Hymn
Tell me what is this innumerable throng Singing in the heavens a loud angelic song? _These are they who come with swift and shining feet From round about the throne of God the Lord of Light to greet._
O, who are these that hasten beneath the starry sky, As if with joyful tidings that through the world shall fly? _The faithful shepherds these, who greatly were afeared When, as they watched their flocks by night, the heavenly host appeared._
Who are these that follow across the hills of night A star that westward hurries along the fields of light? _Three wise men from the east who myrrh and treasure bring To lay them at the feet of him, their Lord and Christ and King._
What babe new-born is this that in a manger cries? Near on her bed of pain his happy mother lies. _O, see! the air is shaken with white and heavenly wings-- This is the Lord of all the earth, this is the King of kings._
Tell me, how may I join in this holy feast With all the kneeling world, and I of all the least? _Fear not, O faithful heart, but bring what most is meet; Bring love alone, true love alone, and lay it at his feet._
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
_By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company_
A Christmas Hymn for Children
Our bells ring to all the earth, _In excelsis gloria!_ But none for Thee made chimes of mirth On that great morning of Thy birth.
Our coats they lack not silk nor fur, _In excelsis gloria!_ Not such Thy Blessed Mother's were; Full simple garments covered Her.
Our churches rise up goodly high, _In excelsis gloria!_ Low in a stall Thyself did lie, With hornèd oxen standing by.
Incense we breathe and scent of wine, _In excelsis gloria!_ Around Thee rose the breath of kine, Thy only drink Her breast Divine.
We take us to a happy tree, _In excelsis gloria!_ The seed was sown that day for Thee That blossomed out of Calvary.
Teach us to feed Thy poor with meat, _In excelsis gloria!_ Who turnest not when we entreat, Who givest us Thy Bread to eat.
_Amen._
From the volume of _Poems_ by JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON
_By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons_
Slumber-Songs of the Madonna
PRELUDE
Dante saw the great white Rose Half unclose; Dante saw the golden bees Gathering from its heart of gold Sweets untold, Love's most honeyed harmonies.
Dante saw the threefold bow Strangely glow, Saw the Rainbow Vision rise, And the Flame that wore the crown Bending down O'er the flowers of Paradise.
Something yet remained, it seems; In his dreams Dante missed--as angels may In their white and burning bliss-- Some small kiss Mortals meet with every day.
Italy in splendour faints 'Neath her saints! O, her great Madonnas, too, Faces calm as any moon Glows in June, Hooded with the night's deep blue!
What remains? I pass and hear Everywhere, Ay, or see in silent eyes Just the song she still would sing. Thus--a-swing O'er the cradle where He lies.
I
Sleep, little baby, I love thee; Sleep, little king, I am bending above thee! How should I know what to sing Here in my arms as I swing thee to sleep? Hushaby low, Rockaby so, Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring, Mother has only a kiss for her king! Why should my singing so make me to weep? Only I know that I love thee, I love thee, Love thee, my little one, sleep.
II
_Is it a dream? Ah, yet it seems Not the same as other dreams!_
I can but think that angels sang, When thou wast born, in the starry sky, And that their golden harps out-rang While the silver clouds went by!
The morning sun shuts out the stars, Which are much loftier than the sun; But, could we burst our prison-bars And find the Light whence light begun, The dreams that heralded thy birth Were truer than the truths of earth; And, by that far immortal Gleam, Soul of my soul, I still would dream!
A ring of light was round thy head, The great-eyed oxen nigh thy bed Their cold and innocent noses bowed, Their sweet breath rose like an incense cloud In the blurred and mystic lanthorn light!
About the middle of the night The black door blazed like some great star With a glory from afar, Or like some mighty chrysolite Wherein an angel stood with white Blinding arrowy bladed wings Before the throne of the King of kings; And, through it, I could dimly see A great steed tethered to a tree.
Then, with crimson gems aflame Through the door the three kings came, And the black Ethiop unrolled The richly broidered cloth of gold, And pourèd forth before thee there Gold and frankincense and myrrh!
III