Poems for Christmas

Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strainTo welcome Him to this His new abode,Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far, upon the eastern road,The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:O run, prevent them with thy humble odeAnd lay it lowly at his blessed feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the angel quireFrom out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

THE HYMN.

It was the Winter wildWhile the heaven-born ChildAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger liesNature in awe to HimHad doff'd her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathise:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fairShe woos the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow;And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;Confounded, that her Maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.

But He, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace,She crown'd with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphereHis ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's soundWas heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hooked Chariot stoodUnstain'd with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peaceful was the nightWherin the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kistWhispering new joys to the mild ocean--Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars with deep amazeStand fix'd in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlightn'd world no more should need:He saw a greater Sun appearThen his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawnOr ere the point of dawnSate simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thenThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheepWas all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greetAs never was by mortal finger strook--Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringed noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was done,And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular lightThat with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;The helmed CherubimAnd sworded Seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,Harping in loud and solemn quireWith unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

Such music (as 'tis said)Before was never madeBut when of old the sons of morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations setAnd the well-balanced world on hinges hung;And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears,If ye have power to touch our senses so;And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full concert to the angelic symphony.

For if such holy SongEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;And speckled vanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;And Hell itself will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit betweenThroned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;And Heaven, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says No;This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both Himself and us to glorify:Yet first to those ychain'd in sleepThe wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

With such a horrid clangAs on mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:The aged Earth agastWith terrour of that blastShall from the surface to the centre shake,When at the worlds last session,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.

And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe old Dragon, under groundIn straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurped sway;And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb;No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving:Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:No nightly trance or breathed spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'erAnd the resounding shoreA voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdged with poplar paleThe parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earthAnd on the holy hearth,The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars roundA drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.

Peor and BaalimForsake their temples dim,With that twice-batter'd god of PalestineAnd mooned AshtarothHeaven's queen and mother both,Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled,Hath left in shadows dreadHis burning idol all of blackest hue;In vain with cymbals' ringThey call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fastIsis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove, or green,Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest;Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;In vain with timbrell'd anthems darkThe sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.

He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded infant's hand;The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abide,Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So, when the sun in bedCurtain'd with cloudy redPillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see, the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:Heavens youngest-teemed star,Hath fixed her polish'd car,Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:And all about the courtly stableBright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay.

Blessèd babe! what glorious features-- Spotless fair, divinely bright!Must He dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger Cursèd sinners could affordTo receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront their Lord?

Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard;’Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story How the Jews abused their King,How they served the Lord of Glory, Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky!Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His Virgin mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how He smiled!When He wept, the mother’s blessing Soothed and hush’d the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the hornèd oxen fed:Peace, my darling; here’s no danger, Here’s no ox anear thy bed.

’Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame,Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.

May’st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days;Then go dwell for ever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!

Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home;Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago?

Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor;A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half-shut stable-doorAcross his path. He passed--for naught Told what was going on within;How keen the stars, his only thought; The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares;The earth was still--but knew not why; The world was listening, unawares.How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever!To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever-- In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throwTheir joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness--charmed and holy now!The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given;For in that stable lay new-born, The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;But every tack we made brought the North Head close aboard;So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall."All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call."By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried."It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,And the ship smelt up to windward, just as though she understood.As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

A voice, a chime,A chant sublimeOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouthThe cannon thundered in the South,And with the soundThe carols drownedOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rentThe hearth-stones of a continent,And made forlornThe households bornOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;"There is no peace on earth," I said,"For hate is strong,And mocks the songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep!The Wrong shall fail,The Right prevail,With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,And chance and honor and high surprise,But our homes are under miraculous skiesWhere the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,Where the beasts feed and foam,Only where He was homelessAre you and I at home;We have hands that fashion and heads that know,But our hearts we lost--how long ago!In a place no chart nor ship can showUnder the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale,And strange the plain things are,The earth is enough and the air is enoughFor our wonder and our war;But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swingsAnd our peace is put in impossible thingsWhere clashed and thundered unthinkable wingsRound an incredible star.

To an open house in the eveningHome shall men come,To an older place than EdenAnd a taller town than Rome.To the end of the way of the wandering star,To the things that cannot be and that are,To the place where God was homelessAnd all men are at home.

But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!"But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle,Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show,Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd knowThat Buff'lo Bill and cow-boys is good enough for me!Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still,His eyes they keep a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's becomeOf them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz,That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions meWhen jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes an' toys,Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys;So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's an' q's,An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out yer shoes;Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men,An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again;But, thinking of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree,Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

To smile and be condescending, Put pudding on pauper plates,To be hosts at the workhouse banquet They've paid for--with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's";So long as they fill their stomachs, What matter whence it comes?But one of the old men mutters, And pushes his plate aside:"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me; For this is the day she died."

The guardians gazed in horror, The master's face went white:"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?" "Could their ears believe aright?"Then the ladies clutched their husbands Thinking the man would die,Struck by a bolt, or something, By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment, Then rose 'mid a silence grim,For the others had ceased to chatter, And trembled in every limb.He looked at the guardians' ladies, Then, eyeing their lords, he said:"I eat not the food of villains Whose hands are foul and red,

"Whose victims cry for vengeance From their dark unhallowed graves.""He's drunk!" said the workhouse master, "Or else he's mad, and raves.""Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, "But only a hunted beast,Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, Declines the vulture's feast.

"I care not a curse for the guardians, And I won't be dragged away.Just let me have the fit out, It's only on Christmas dayThat the black past comes to goad me, And prey on my burning brain,I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,-- I swear I won't shout again,

"Keep your hands off me, curse you! Hear me right out to the end,You come here to see how paupers The season of Christmas spend.You come here to watch us feeding, As they watch the captured beast,Hear why a penniless pauper Spits on your palfry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty, And let you smile and thinkYou're doing a noble action With the parish's meat and drink?Where is my wife, you traitors-- The poor old wife you slew?Yes, by the God above us, My Nance was killed by you!

"Last winter my wife lay dying, Starved in a filthy den;I had never been to the parish,-- I came to the parish then.I swallowed my pride in coming, For, ere the ruin came.I held up my head as a trader, And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving Bread for a starving wife,Bread for the woman who'd loved me Through fifty years of life;And what do you think they told me, Mocking my awful grief?That 'the House' was open to us, But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'

"I slunk to the filthy alley-- 'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve--And the bakers' shops were open, Tempting a man to thieve:But I clenched my fists together, Holding my head awry,So I came to her empty-handed And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her 'the House' was open; She had heard of the ways of that,For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, And up in her rags she sat,Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, We've never had one apart;I think I can bear the hunger,-- The other would break my heart.'

"All through that eve I watched her, Holding her hand in mine,Praying the Lord, and weeping Till my lips were salt as brine.I asked her once if she hungered, And as she answered 'No,'The moon shone in at the window Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory, And I saw in my darling's eyesThe far-away look of wonder That comes when the spirit flies;And her lips were parched and parted, And her reason came and went,For she raved of our home in Devon Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents, long forgotten, Came back to the tongue once more,For she talked like the country lassie I woo'd by the Devon shore.Then she rose to her feet and trembled, And fell on the rags and moaned,And, 'Give me a crust--I'm famished-- For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman, And flew to the workhouse gate,Crying 'Food for a dying woman?' And the answer came, 'Too late.'They drove me away with curses; Then I fought with a dog in the street,And tore from the mongrel's clutches A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back, through the filthy by-lanes! Back, through the trampled slush!Up to the crazy garret, Wrapped in an awful hush.My heart sank down at the threshold, And I paused with a sudden thrill,For there in the silv'ry moonlight My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling The sunken eyes were cast--I knew on those lips all bloodless My name had been the last:She'd called for her absent husband-- O God! had I but known!--Had called in vain, and in anguish Had died in that den--alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty, Lay a loving woman dead,Cruelly starved and murdered For a loaf of the parish bread.At yonder gate, last Christmas, I craved for a human life.You, who would feast us paupers, What of my murdered wife!

"There, get ye gone to you dinners; Don't mind me in the least;Think of the happy paupers Eating your Christmas feast;And when you recount their blessings In your snug, parochial way,Say what you did for me, too, Only last Christmas Day."

"He neither shall be washenWith white wine nor with red,But with the fair spring waterThat on you shall be shed.

"He neither shall be clothedIn purple nor in pall,But in the fair, white linenThat usen babies all."

As Joseph was a-waukin',Thus did the angel sing,And Mary's son at midnightWas born to be our King.

Then be you glad, good people,At this time of the year;And light you up your candles,For His star it shineth clear.

‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,The dazie o’er the head,The cushions in the chairs,And all the candles lighted on the stairs?Perfume the chambers, and in any caseLet each man give attendance in his place!’

Thus, if a king were coming, would we do;And ’twere good reason too;For ’tis a duteous thingTo show all honour to an earthly king,And after all our travail and our cost,So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.

But at the coming of the King of HeavenAll’s set at six and seven;We wallow in our sin,Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.We entertain Him always like a stranger,And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.

All hail’d with uncontroll’d delightAnd general voice the happy nightThat to the cottage as the crownBrought tidings of salvation down.

The fire with well-dried logs suppliedWent roaring up the chimney wide;The huge hall-table’s oaken face,Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,Bore then upon its massive boardNo mark to part the squire and lord.Then was brought in the lusty brawnBy old blue-coated serving-man;Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on high,Crested with bay and rosemary.Well can the green-garb’d ranger tellHow, when, and where the monster fell,What dogs before his death he tore,And all the baiting of the boar.The wassail round, in good brown bowls,Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely trowls.There the huge sirloin reek’d; hard byPlum-porridge stood and Christmas pie;Nor fail’d old Scotland to produceAt such high-tide her savoury goose.Then came the merry masquers inAnd carols roar’d with blithesome din;If unmelodious was the songIt was a hearty note and strong.Who lists may in their mumming seeTraces of ancient mystery;White shirts supplied the masquerade,And smutted cheeks the visors made:But oh! what masquers richly dightCan boast of bosoms half so light!England was merry England whenOld Christmas brought his sports again.’Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale,’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;A Christmas gambol oft could cheerThe poor man’s heart through half the year.

She listened to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she pressed;And while she cried, The Babe is mine! The milk rushed faster to her breast:Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

Thou mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate!That strife should vanish, battle cease, O why should this thy soul elate?Sweet music’s loudest note, the poet’s story,—Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not War a youthful king, A stately hero clad in mail?Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; Him earth’s majestic monarchs hailTheir friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eyeCompels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.

‘Tell this in some more courtly scene To maids and youths in robes of state!I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate.War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,That from the aged father tears his child.

‘A murderous fiend by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son;The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow’s toil had won;Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends awayAll safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

‘Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease;I’m poor and of a low estate, The mother of the Prince of Peace.Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.’

Blessed, blessed! for she layWith such a Babe in one blest bed,Close as babes and mothers lie!Blessed, blessed evermore,With her virgin lips she kiss’d,With her arms, and to her breast,She embraced the Babe divine,Her Babe divine the virgin-mother!There lives not on this ring of earthA mortal that can sing her praise.Mighty mother, virgin pure,In the darkness and the nightFor us she bore the heavenly Lord.

God abides In a terrible patience, Unangered, unworn,And again for the child that was squandered A child is born.

What know we of aeons behind us, Dim dynasties lost long ago,Huge empires, like dreams unremembered, Huge cities for ages laid low?This at least--that with blight and with blessing With flower and with thorn,Love was there, and his cry was among them, "A child is born."

Though the darkness be noisy with systems, Dark fancies that fret and disprove,Still the plumes stir around us, above us The wings of the shadow of love:Oh! princes and priests, have ye seen it Grow pale through your scorn.Huge dawns sleep before us, deep changes, A child is born.

And the rafters of toil still are gilded With the dawn of the star of the heart,And the wise men draw near in the twilight, Who are weary of learning and art,And the face of the tyrant is darkened. His spirit is torn,For a new King is enthroned; yea, the sternest, A child is born.

And the mother still joys for the whispered First stir of unspeakable things,Still feels that high moment unfurling Red glory of Gabriel's wings.Still the babe of an hour is a master Whom angels adorn,Emmanuel, prophet, anointed, A child is born.

And thou, that art still in thy cradle, The sun being crown for thy brow.Make answer, our flesh, make an answer, Say, whence art thou come--who art thou?Art thou come back on earth for our teaching To train or to warn--?Hush--how may we know?--knowing only A child is born.

The idle humble hill and woodAre bowed upon the sacred birth,And for one little hour the earthIs lazy with the love of good-- (But ready are you, and ready am I, If the battle blow and the guns go by; For we are for all men under the sun, And they are against us every one; And the men that hate herd all together, To pride and gold, and the great white feather And the thing is graven in star and stone That the men who love are all alone.)

Hunger is hard and time is tough,But bless the beggars and kiss the kings,For hope has broken the heart of things,And nothing was ever praised enough. (But bold the shield for a sudden swing And point the sword when you praise a thing, For we are for all men under the sun, And they are against us every one; And mime and merchant, thane and thrall Hate us because we love them all; Only till Christmastide go by Passionate peace is in the sky.)

The Magi kneel at his foot, Kings of the East and West,But, instead of the angels (mute Is the "Peace on earth" of their song),The peoples, perplexed and opprest, Are sighing "How long, how long?"

And, instead of the kine, bewilder in Shadow of aisle and dome,The bear who tore up the children, The fox who burnt up the corn,And the wolf who suckled at Rome Brothers to slay and to scorn.

Cardinals left and right of him, Worshippers round and beneath,The silver trumpets at sight of him Thrill with a musical blast:But the people say through their teeth, "Trumpets? we wait for the Last!"

He sits in the place of the Lord, And asks for the gifts of the time;Gold, for the haft of a sword To win back Romagna averse,Incense, to sweeten a crime, And myrrh, to embitter a curse.

Then a king of the West said "Good!-- I bring thee the gifts of the time;Red, for the patriot's blood, Green, for the martyr's crown,White, for the dew and the rime, When the morning of God comes down."

--O mystic tricolor bright! The Pope's heart quailed like a man's;The cardinals froze at the sight, Bowing their tonsures hoary:And the eyes in the peacock-fans Winked at the alien glory.

But the peoples exclaimed in hope, "Now blessed be he who has broughtThese gifts of the time to the Pope, When our souls were sick and forlorn.--And here is the star we sought, To show us where Christ was born!"

Going over the hills Through the milk-white snow, Heard I ewes bleat While the wind did blow. Nowell, &c.

Shepherds many an one Sat among the sheep; No man spake more word Than they had been asleep. Nowell, &c.

Quoth I, ‘Fellows mine, Why this guise sit ye? Making but dull cheer, Shepherds though ye be?’ Nowell, &c.

‘Shepherds should of right Leap and dance and sing; Thus to see ye sit Is a right strange thing.’ Nowell, &c.

Quoth these fellows then, ‘To Bethlem town we go, To see a mighty Lord Lie in manger low.’ Nowell, &c.

‘How name ye this Lord, Shepherds?’ then said I. ‘Very God,’ they said, ‘Come from heaven high.’ Nowell, &c.

Then to Bethlem town We went two and two, And in a sorry place Heard the oxen low. Nowell, &c.

Therein did we see A sweet and goodly May, And a fair old man; Upon the straw she lay. Nowell, &c.

And a little Child On her arm had she; ‘Wot ye who This is?’ Said the hinds to me. Nowell, &c.

Ox and ass Him know, Kneeling on their knee: Wondrous joy had I This little Babe to see. Nowell, &c.

This is Christ the Lord, Masters, be ye glad! Christmas is come in, And no folk should be sad. Nowell, &c.

News, news of the Trinity, The snow in the street and the wind on the door.And Mary and Joseph from over the sea: Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

For as we wandered far and wide, The snow in the street and the wind on the door.What hap do ye deem there should us betide? Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

Under a bent when the night was deep, The snow in the street and the wind on the door.There lay three shepherds tending their sheep: Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘O ye shepherds, what have ye seen, The snow in the street and the wind on the door,To slay your sorrow and heal your teen?’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘In an ox-stall this night we saw, The snow in the street and the wind on the door,A Babe and a maid without a flaw.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘There was an old man there beside, The snow in the street and the wind on the door,His hair was white and his hood was wide.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘And as we gazed this thing upon, The snow in the street and the wind on the door,Those twain knelt down to the Little One.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘And a marvellous song we straight did hear, The snow in the street and the wind on the door,That slew our sorrow and healed our care.’ Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

News of a fair and a marvellous thing, The snow in the street and the wind on the door.Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing! Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.