A scene of a village street with people wearing winter clothings
By Hans Christian Andersen.
Child Jesus comes from heavenly height,To save us from sin's keeping:On manger straw, in darksome night,The Blessed One lies sleeping.The star smiles down, the angels greet,The oxen kiss the Baby's feet.Hallelujah, hallelujah,Child Jesus.Take courage, soul, in grief cast down,Forget the bitter dealing:A Child is born in David's town,To touch all souls with healing.Then let us go and seek the Child,Children like him, meek, undefiled.Hallelujah, hallelujah,Child Jesus.
Child Jesus comes from heavenly height,To save us from sin's keeping:On manger straw, in darksome night,The Blessed One lies sleeping.The star smiles down, the angels greet,The oxen kiss the Baby's feet.Hallelujah, hallelujah,Child Jesus.Take courage, soul, in grief cast down,Forget the bitter dealing:A Child is born in David's town,To touch all souls with healing.Then let us go and seek the Child,Children like him, meek, undefiled.Hallelujah, hallelujah,Child Jesus.
Child Jesus comes from heavenly height,To save us from sin's keeping:On manger straw, in darksome night,The Blessed One lies sleeping.The star smiles down, the angels greet,The oxen kiss the Baby's feet.Hallelujah, hallelujah,Child Jesus.
Take courage, soul, in grief cast down,Forget the bitter dealing:A Child is born in David's town,To touch all souls with healing.Then let us go and seek the Child,Children like him, meek, undefiled.Hallelujah, hallelujah,Child Jesus.
Anonymous.
Last night, as I lay sleeping,When all my prayers were said,With my guardian angel keepingHis watch above my head,I heard his sweet voice carolling,Full softly on my ear,A song for Christian boys to sing,For Christian men to hear:"Thy body be at rest, dear boy,Thy soul be free from sin;I'll shield thee from the world's annoy,And breathe pure words within.The holy Christmas-tide is nigh,The season of Christ's birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth."Myself and all the heavenly hostWere keeping watch of old,And saw the shepherds at their posts,And all the sheep in fold.Then told we, with a joyful cry,The tidings of Christ's birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth."He bowed to all his Father's will,And meek he was and lowly;And year by year his thoughts were stillMost innocent and holy.He did not come to strive or cry,But ever, from his birth,Gave glory unto God on high,And peace to men on earth."Like him be true, like him be pure,Like him be full of love;Seek not thine own, and so secureThine own that is above.And still, as Christmas-tide draws nigh,Sing thou of Jesus' birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth."
Last night, as I lay sleeping,When all my prayers were said,With my guardian angel keepingHis watch above my head,I heard his sweet voice carolling,Full softly on my ear,A song for Christian boys to sing,For Christian men to hear:"Thy body be at rest, dear boy,Thy soul be free from sin;I'll shield thee from the world's annoy,And breathe pure words within.The holy Christmas-tide is nigh,The season of Christ's birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth."Myself and all the heavenly hostWere keeping watch of old,And saw the shepherds at their posts,And all the sheep in fold.Then told we, with a joyful cry,The tidings of Christ's birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth."He bowed to all his Father's will,And meek he was and lowly;And year by year his thoughts were stillMost innocent and holy.He did not come to strive or cry,But ever, from his birth,Gave glory unto God on high,And peace to men on earth."Like him be true, like him be pure,Like him be full of love;Seek not thine own, and so secureThine own that is above.And still, as Christmas-tide draws nigh,Sing thou of Jesus' birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth."
Last night, as I lay sleeping,When all my prayers were said,With my guardian angel keepingHis watch above my head,I heard his sweet voice carolling,Full softly on my ear,A song for Christian boys to sing,For Christian men to hear:
"Thy body be at rest, dear boy,Thy soul be free from sin;I'll shield thee from the world's annoy,And breathe pure words within.The holy Christmas-tide is nigh,The season of Christ's birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth.
"Myself and all the heavenly hostWere keeping watch of old,And saw the shepherds at their posts,And all the sheep in fold.Then told we, with a joyful cry,The tidings of Christ's birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth.
"He bowed to all his Father's will,And meek he was and lowly;And year by year his thoughts were stillMost innocent and holy.He did not come to strive or cry,But ever, from his birth,Gave glory unto God on high,And peace to men on earth.
"Like him be true, like him be pure,Like him be full of love;Seek not thine own, and so secureThine own that is above.And still, as Christmas-tide draws nigh,Sing thou of Jesus' birth;Glory be to God on high,And peace to men on earth."
By Charles Dickens.
The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' shops were radiant in their glory. There were great round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by and glanced demurely at the hung up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shop-keepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasantshufflings ankle-deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.
The Grocers'! oh, the Grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faintand subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humor possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.
IN THE CHURCH.
But soon the steeples called good people all to church and chapel; and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much; for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, andtaking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch; for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humor was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was!
By Charles Mackay.
Ye who have scorned each other,Or injured friend or brother,In this fast-fading year;Ye who, by word or deed,Have made a kind heart bleed,—Come gather here.Let sinned against and sinningForget their strife's beginning,And join in friendship now;Be links no longer broken,Be sweet forgiveness spokenUnder the holly-bough.Ye who have loved each other,Sister and friend and brother,In this fast-fading year;Mother and sire and child,Young man and maiden mild,—Come gather here;And let your hearts grow fonder,As memory shall ponderEach past unbroken vow:Old loves and younger wooingAre sweet in the renewingUnder the holly-bough.Ye who have nourished sadness,Estranged from hope and gladness,In this fast-fading year;Ye with o'erburdened mindMade aliens from your kind,—Come gather here.Let not the useless sorrowPursue you night and morrow;If e'er you hoped, hope now,—Take heart, uncloud your faces,And join in our embracesUnder the holly-bough.
Ye who have scorned each other,Or injured friend or brother,In this fast-fading year;Ye who, by word or deed,Have made a kind heart bleed,—Come gather here.Let sinned against and sinningForget their strife's beginning,And join in friendship now;Be links no longer broken,Be sweet forgiveness spokenUnder the holly-bough.Ye who have loved each other,Sister and friend and brother,In this fast-fading year;Mother and sire and child,Young man and maiden mild,—Come gather here;And let your hearts grow fonder,As memory shall ponderEach past unbroken vow:Old loves and younger wooingAre sweet in the renewingUnder the holly-bough.Ye who have nourished sadness,Estranged from hope and gladness,In this fast-fading year;Ye with o'erburdened mindMade aliens from your kind,—Come gather here.Let not the useless sorrowPursue you night and morrow;If e'er you hoped, hope now,—Take heart, uncloud your faces,And join in our embracesUnder the holly-bough.
Ye who have scorned each other,Or injured friend or brother,In this fast-fading year;Ye who, by word or deed,Have made a kind heart bleed,—Come gather here.Let sinned against and sinningForget their strife's beginning,And join in friendship now;Be links no longer broken,Be sweet forgiveness spokenUnder the holly-bough.
Ye who have loved each other,Sister and friend and brother,In this fast-fading year;Mother and sire and child,Young man and maiden mild,—Come gather here;And let your hearts grow fonder,As memory shall ponderEach past unbroken vow:Old loves and younger wooingAre sweet in the renewingUnder the holly-bough.
Ye who have nourished sadness,Estranged from hope and gladness,In this fast-fading year;Ye with o'erburdened mindMade aliens from your kind,—Come gather here.Let not the useless sorrowPursue you night and morrow;If e'er you hoped, hope now,—Take heart, uncloud your faces,And join in our embracesUnder the holly-bough.
By Hans Christian Andersen.
It was terribly cold; it snowed and was already almost dark, and evening came on,—the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a poor little girl, bareheaded and barefoot, was walking through the streets. When she left her own house she certainly had had slippers on; but of what use were they? They were very big slippers, and her mother had used them till then, so big were they. The little maid lost them as she slipped across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. One slipper was not to be found again; and a boy had seized the other, and run away with it. He thought he could use it very well as a cradle, some day when he had children of his own. So now the little girl went with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches and a bundle of them in her hand. No one hadbought anything of her all day, and no one had given her a farthing.
Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes covered her long fair hair, which fell in pretty curls over her neck; but she did not think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining, and there was a glorious smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's Eve. Yes, she thought of that!
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sat down, cowering. She had drawn up her little feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare to go home, for she had sold no matches, and did not bring a farthing of money. From her father she would certainly receive a beating; and, besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them but a roof through which the wind whistled, though the largest rents had been stopped with straw and rags.
Her little hands were almost benumbed with the cold. Ah! a match might do her good, if she could only draw one from the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her hands at it. She drew one out. R-r-atch! how it sputtered and burned! It was a warm bright flame, like alittle candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat before a great polished stove, with bright brass feet and a brass cover. How the fire burned! how comfortable it was! but the little flame went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the burned match in her hand.
A second was rubbed against the wall. It burned up; and when the light fell upon the wall it became transparent like a thin veil, and she could see through it into the room. On the table a snow-white cloth was spread; upon it stood a shining dinner service; the roast goose smoked gloriously, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more splendid to behold, the goose hopped down from the dish, and waddled along the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was before her. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree; it was greater and more ornamented than the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of candles burned upon the green branches, and colored pictures like those in the print shops lookeddown upon them. The little girl stretched forth her hand toward them; then the match went out. The Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as stars in the sky: one of them fell down, forming a long line of fire.
"Now some one is dying," thought the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star fell down a soul mounted up to God.
She rubbed another match against the wall; it became bright again, and in the brightness the old grandmother stood clear and shining, mild and lovely.
"Grandmother!" cried the child, "oh, take me with you! I know you will go when the match is burned out. You will vanish like the warm fire, the warm food, and the great, glorious Christmas tree!"
And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches burned with such a glow that it became brighter than in the middle of the day; grandmother had never been so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high; and up there was neithercold nor hunger nor care,—they were with God.
But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the poor girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the Old Year. The New Year's sun rose upon a little corpse! The child sat there, stiff and cold, with the matches, of which one bundle was burned. "She wanted to warm herself," the people said. No one imagined what a beautiful thing she had seen, and in what glory she had gone in with her grandmother to the New Year's Day.
From George Wither's "Hallelujah."
Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear?What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine earTo hear me sing thy lullaby.My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy Father dear;His holy Spouse thy Mother too.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing,For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine eldest brother is a king,And hath a kingdom bought for thee.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;For whosoever thee offends,By thy protector threatened are,And God and angels are thy friends.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.When God with us was dwelling here,In little babes he took delight:Such innocents as thou, my dear,Are ever precious in his sight.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.A little infant once was he,And Strength-in-Weakness then was laidUpon his Virgin-Mother's knee,That power to thee might be conveyed.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.In this thy frailty and thy needHe friends and helpers doth prepare,Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,For of thy weal they tender are.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.The King of kings, when he was born,Had not so much for outward ease;By him such dressings were not worn,Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Within a manger lodged thy Lord,Where oxen lay and asses fed;Warm rooms we do to thee afford,An easy cradle or a bed.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.The wants that he did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee,And by his torments and his painThy rest and ease securèd be.My baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Thou hast (yet more), to perfect this,A promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss,Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear?What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine earTo hear me sing thy lullaby.My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy Father dear;His holy Spouse thy Mother too.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing,For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine eldest brother is a king,And hath a kingdom bought for thee.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;For whosoever thee offends,By thy protector threatened are,And God and angels are thy friends.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.When God with us was dwelling here,In little babes he took delight:Such innocents as thou, my dear,Are ever precious in his sight.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.A little infant once was he,And Strength-in-Weakness then was laidUpon his Virgin-Mother's knee,That power to thee might be conveyed.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.In this thy frailty and thy needHe friends and helpers doth prepare,Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,For of thy weal they tender are.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.The King of kings, when he was born,Had not so much for outward ease;By him such dressings were not worn,Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Within a manger lodged thy Lord,Where oxen lay and asses fed;Warm rooms we do to thee afford,An easy cradle or a bed.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.The wants that he did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee,And by his torments and his painThy rest and ease securèd be.My baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Thou hast (yet more), to perfect this,A promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss,Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear?What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine earTo hear me sing thy lullaby.My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy Father dear;His holy Spouse thy Mother too.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing,For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine eldest brother is a king,And hath a kingdom bought for thee.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;For whosoever thee offends,By thy protector threatened are,And God and angels are thy friends.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,In little babes he took delight:Such innocents as thou, my dear,Are ever precious in his sight.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was he,And Strength-in-Weakness then was laidUpon his Virgin-Mother's knee,That power to thee might be conveyed.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this thy frailty and thy needHe friends and helpers doth prepare,Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,For of thy weal they tender are.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,Had not so much for outward ease;By him such dressings were not worn,Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord,Where oxen lay and asses fed;Warm rooms we do to thee afford,An easy cradle or a bed.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that he did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee,And by his torments and his painThy rest and ease securèd be.My baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast (yet more), to perfect this,A promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss,Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson.(Cantos XXVIII., XXIX., XXX.)
The time draws near the birth of Christ:The moon is hid; the night is still;The Christmas bells from hill to hillAnswer 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 doorWere 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 wished no more to wake,And that my hold on life would breakBefore I heard those bells again:But they my troubled spirit rule,For they controlled me when a boy;They bring me sorrow touched with joy,The merry, merry bells of Yule.With such compelling cause to grieveAs daily vexes household peace,And chains regret to his decease,How dare we keep our Christmas Eve;Which brings no more a welcome guestTo enrich the threshold of the nightWith showered largess of delight,In dance and song and game and jest.Yet go, and while the holly-boughsEntwine 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 dueBefore their time? They too will die.With trembling fingers did we weaveThe holly round the Christmas hearth;A rainy cloud possessed the earth,And sadly fell our Christmas Eve.At our old pastimes in the hallWe gambolled, making vain pretenceOf gladness, with an awful senseOf 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-handSat silent, looking each at each.Then echo-like our voices rang;We sung, though every eye was dim,A merry song we sang with himLast year: impetuously we sang:We ceased: a gentler feeling creptUpon us: surely rest is meet:"They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,"And silence followed, 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 frailWith gathered power, yet the same,Pierces the keen seraphic flameFrom 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 lightThe light that shone when Hope was born.
The time draws near the birth of Christ:The moon is hid; the night is still;The Christmas bells from hill to hillAnswer 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 doorWere 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 wished no more to wake,And that my hold on life would breakBefore I heard those bells again:But they my troubled spirit rule,For they controlled me when a boy;They bring me sorrow touched with joy,The merry, merry bells of Yule.With such compelling cause to grieveAs daily vexes household peace,And chains regret to his decease,How dare we keep our Christmas Eve;Which brings no more a welcome guestTo enrich the threshold of the nightWith showered largess of delight,In dance and song and game and jest.Yet go, and while the holly-boughsEntwine 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 dueBefore their time? They too will die.With trembling fingers did we weaveThe holly round the Christmas hearth;A rainy cloud possessed the earth,And sadly fell our Christmas Eve.At our old pastimes in the hallWe gambolled, making vain pretenceOf gladness, with an awful senseOf 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-handSat silent, looking each at each.Then echo-like our voices rang;We sung, though every eye was dim,A merry song we sang with himLast year: impetuously we sang:We ceased: a gentler feeling creptUpon us: surely rest is meet:"They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,"And silence followed, 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 frailWith gathered power, yet the same,Pierces the keen seraphic flameFrom 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 lightThe light that shone when Hope was born.
The time draws near the birth of Christ:The moon is hid; the night is still;The Christmas bells from hill to hillAnswer 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 doorWere 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 wished no more to wake,And that my hold on life would breakBefore I heard those bells again:
But they my troubled spirit rule,For they controlled me when a boy;They bring me sorrow touched with joy,The merry, merry bells of Yule.
With such compelling cause to grieveAs daily vexes household peace,And chains regret to his decease,How dare we keep our Christmas Eve;
Which brings no more a welcome guestTo enrich the threshold of the nightWith showered largess of delight,In dance and song and game and jest.
Yet go, and while the holly-boughsEntwine 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 dueBefore their time? They too will die.
With trembling fingers did we weaveThe holly round the Christmas hearth;A rainy cloud possessed the earth,And sadly fell our Christmas Eve.
At our old pastimes in the hallWe gambolled, making vain pretenceOf gladness, with an awful senseOf 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-handSat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;We sung, though every eye was dim,A merry song we sang with himLast year: impetuously we sang:
We ceased: a gentler feeling creptUpon us: surely rest is meet:"They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,"And silence followed, 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 frailWith gathered power, yet the same,Pierces the keen seraphic flameFrom 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 lightThe light that shone when Hope was born.
A scene of a village church
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including inconsistent use of hyphen (e.g. "good will" and "good-will").
Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including inconsistent use of hyphen (e.g. "good will" and "good-will").