The Nativity.
Louisa Parsons Hopkins.
From Nazareth to Bethlehem,
Their holy journey leading them
By silver-towered Jerusalem.
Beneath the palm-tree’s tossing plume,
Amid the harvest’s rich perfume,
No house could give them rest or room.
So entering at the wayside cave,
Where mountain-rills the limestone lave,
The child was born a world to save.
They laid him in the manger white;
The lowing oxen saw the sight,
And wondered at the dazzling light.
The mother’s heart in sacred bliss
Could dream no sweeter heaven than this,
To greet her babe with mother’s kiss.
And bending down with sacred awe,
For a lost world the angels saw
Love, the fulfilling of the law.
A Christmas day, to be perfect, should be clear and cold, with holly branches in berry, a blazing fire, a dinner with mince-pies, and games and forfeits in the evening. You cannot have it in perfection if you are very fine and fashionable. A Christmas evening should, if possible, finish with music. It carries off the excitement without abruptness, and sheds a repose over the conclusion of enjoyment.—Leigh Hunt.