The Orphan's Dream Of Christmas.
It was Christmas Eve—and lonely,
By a garret window high,
Where the city chimneys barely
Spared a hand's-breadth of the sky,
Sat a child, in age—but weeping,
With a face so small and thin,
That it seem'd too scant a record
To have eight years traced therein.
Oh, grief looks most distorted
When his hideous shadow lies
On the clear and sunny life-stream
That doth fill a child's blue eyes,
But her eye was dull and sunken,
And the whiten'd cheek was gaunt,
And the blue veins on the forehead
Were the penciling of Want.
And she wept for years like jewels,
Till the last year's bitter gall,
Like the acid of the story,
In itself had melted all;
But the Christmas time returned,
As an old friend, for whose eye
She would take down all the pictures
Sketch'd by faithful Memory,—
Of those brilliant Christmas seasons,
When the joyous laugh went around;
When sweet words of love and kindness
Were no unfamiliar sound
When, lit by the log's red lustre,
She her mother's face could see,
And she rock'd the cradle, sitting
On her own twin brother's knee:
Of her father's pleasant stories;
Of the riddles and the rhymes,
All the kisses and the presents
That had mark'd those Christmas times.
'Twas as well that there was no one
(For it were a mocking strain)
To wish her a merry Christmas,
For that could not come again.
How there came a time of struggling,
When, in spite of love and faith,
Grinding Poverty would only
In the end give place to Death;
How her mother grew heart-broken,
When her toil-worn father died,
Took her baby in her bosom,
And was buried by his side:
How she clung unto her brother
As the last spar from the wreck,
But stern Death had come between them
While her arms were around his neck
There were now no loving voices;
And, if few hands offered bread,
There were none to rest in blessing
On the little homeless head.
Or, if any gave her shelter,
It was less of joy than fear;
For they welcom'd Crime more warmly
To the selfsame room with her.
But, at length they all grew weary
Of their sick and useless guest;
She must try a workhouse welcome
For the helpless and distressed.
But she pray'd; and the Unsleeping
In his ear that whisper caught;
So he sent down Sleep, who gave her
Such a respite as she sought;
Drew the fair head to her bosom,
Pressed the wetted eyelids close,
And with softly-falling kisses,
Lulled her gently to repose.
Then she dreamed the angels, sweeping
With their wings the sky aside,
Raised her swiftly to the country
Where the blessed ones abide:
To a bower all flushed with beauty,
By a shadowy arcade,
Where a mellowness like moonlight
By the Tree of Life was made:
Where the rich fruit sparkled, star-like,
And pure flowers of fadeless dye
Poured their fragrance on the waters
That in crystal beds went by:
Where bright hills of pearl and amber
Closed the fair green valleys round,
And, with rainbow light, but lasting,
Were there glistening summits crown'd
Then, that distant-burning glory,
'Mid a gorgeousness of light!
The long vista of Archangels
Could scarce chasten to her sight.
There sat One; and her heart told her
'Twas the same, who, for our sin,
Was once born a little baby
“In the stable of an inn.”
There was music—oh, such music!—
They were trying the old strains
That a certain group of shepherds
Heard on old Judea's plains;
But, when that divinest chorus
To a softened trembling fell,
Love's true ear discerned the voices
That on earth she loved so well.
At a tiny grotto's entrance
A fair child her eyes behold,
With his ivory shoulders hidden
'Neath his curls of living gold;
And he asks them, “Is she coming?”
But ere any one can speak,
The white arms of her twin brother
Are once more about her neck.
Then they all come round her greeting;
But she might have well denied
That her beautiful young sister
Is the poor pale child that died;
And the careful look hath vanished
From her father's tearless face,
And she does not know her mother
Till she feels the old embrace.
Oh, from that ecstatic dreaming
Must she ever wake again,
To the cold and cheerless contrast——
To a life of lonely pain?
But her Maker's sternest servant
To her side on tiptoe stept;
Told his message in a whisper,——
And she stirred not as she slept!
Now the Christmas morn was breaking
With a dim, uncertain hue,
And the chilling breeze of morning
Came the broken window through;
And the hair upon her forehead,
Was it lifted by the blast,
Or the brushing wings of Seraphs,
With their burden as they pass'd?
All the festive bells were chiming
To the myriad hearts below;
But that deep sleep still hung heavy
On the sleeper's thoughtful brow.
To her quiet face the dream-light
Had a lingering glory given;
But the child herself was keeping
Her Christmas-day in Heaven!