A CHRISTMAS DREAM.
A Pilgrim to the West returned, whose palm-branch, drenched in dew,
Shook off bright drops like childhood's tears when childhood's heart is new,
Stole up the hills at eventide, like mist in wintry weather,
Where locked in dream-like trance I lay, at rest among the heather.
The red ferns, answering to his tread; sent up a savor sweet;
The yellow gorse, like Magian gold, glowed bright about his feet:
The waving brooms, the winter blooms, each happy voice in air,
Grew great with life and melody, as if a Christ stood there.
Unlike to mortal man was he. His brow rose broad and high:
The peace of heaven was on his lip, the God-light in his eye;
And rayed with richer glory streamed, through night and darkness shed,
To crown that holy Pilgrim's brow, the one star overhead.
Long gazing on that staff he bore, beholding how it grew
With sprouts of green, with buds between, and young leaves ever new.
The marvels of the Eastern land I bade him all unfold.
And thus to my impassioned ears the wondrous tale he told:
"Each growth upon that sacred soil where one died not in vain,
Though crushed and shed, though seeming dead, in beauty lives again:
The branching bough the knife may cleave, the root the axe may sever,
But on the ground his presence lighted, nothing dies for ever.
"Where once amid the lowly stalls fell soft the Virgin's tear,
The littered straw 'neath children's feet turns to green wheat in ear.
The corn he pluck'd on Sabbath days, though ne'er it feels the sun,
Though millions since have trod the field, bears fruit for every one.
"The palms that on his way were strewn wave ever in the air;
From clouded earth to sun-bright heaven they form a leafy stair.
In Cana's bowers the love of man is touched by the divine;
And snows that fall on Galilee have still the taste of wine.
"Where thy lost locks, poor Magdalen! around his feet were rolled,
Still springs in woman's worship-ways the gracious Mary-gold:
Men know when o'er that bowed down head they hear the angels weeping,
The purer spirit is not dead—not dead, but only sleeping.
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"Aloft on blackened Calvary no more the shadows lower:
Where fell the piercing crown of thorns, there blooms a thorn in flower.
Bright on the prickled holy-tree and mistletoe' appear,
Reflecting rays of heavenly shine, the blod-drop and the tear.
"The sounding rocks that knew his tread wake up each dead abyss,
Where echoes caught from higher worlds ring gloriously in this;
And, leaning where his voice once filled the temple where he taught,
The listener's eyes grew spirit-full—full with a heavenly thought."
The Pilgrim ceased. My heart beat fast. I marked a change of hue;
As if those more than mortal eyes a soul from God looked through.
Then rising slow as angels rise, and soaring faint and far,
He passed my bound of vision, robed in glory, as a star.
Strange herald voices filled the air: glad anthems swelled around:
The wakened winds rose eager-voiced, and lapsed in dreamy sound.
It seemed all birds that wintered far, drawn home by some blessed power,
Made music in the Christmas woods, mistaking of the hour.
A new glad spirit raptured me! I woke to breathe the morn
With heart fresh-strung to charity—as though a Christ were born.
Then knew I how each earth-born thought, though tombed in clay it seem,
It bursts the sod, it soars to God, transfigured in a dream.
ELEANORA L. HERVEY