MY CHRISTMAS TREE.
The Christmas logs were blazing bright, the house was all aglow,
Five little stockings brimming full were hanging in a row;
The balls of golden, silver, red, upon the Christmas tree,
Like fire-flies glancing through the green, were shining merrily,
And gifts for May and Josey, and for Maggie, Kate, and Will,
From bending top to sturdy root, the swaying branches fill;
And I, my labors all complete, sat watching through the night,
For well I knew that busy feet, before the morning-light,
Would patter, patter down the stairs in merry Christmas glee,
And warm and bright as love could make, must their first welcome be.
The while I mused upon their joy, with eyes fixed on the door.
The fairest form I ere had seen glided the threshold o'er—
A sweet and gentle maiden "waxen little past the child,"
And close upon her steps a man of visage grave and mild.
As the fair maiden nearer drew, I saw her small hands prest
The loveliest new-born baby that e'er slept on mortal breast—
Albeit, five fair little buds had blossomed on mine own,
Such winning grace of perfectness mine heart had never known.
Adown, in sudden rapture caught, I fell on bended knee.
For Jesus and Saint Mary and Saint Joseph were with me!
The Maiden Mother gently bent, and in my trembling hands
Laid little baby-Jesus, wrapt up in his swaddling bands.
"Give rest and food and shelter unto him who for your sake
Hath reft himself of all things," thus the Maiden Mother spake;
"Each Christmas eve we, journeying, as once in Bethlehem,
At every Christian door-step ask for shelter, as of them
Who in my mother's maiden home had room for all save him
Before whose throne of living light bow down the seraphim.
And oft times now, as on that night, rejected, we depart.
As though they were Judean inns, from many a Christian heart.
With warmth and light and merry feasts ye hail his natal-day,
But who have place for Jesus Christ who in the manger lay?
Mosttimes the doors are closely barred, the fire-light is grown dim,
And few who watch as now you watch, keep watch or ward for him."
Her tones were tender, sweet, and low, but through the crust of years
They found the blessed, blessed fount of humble, contrite tears;
And as they overflowed mine eyes, and plashed upon his head,
The baby woke to life and warmth, who seemed so cold and dead;
And pointing where a little gift for "Christ's poor" lowly lay
Beneath the tree so richly bowed, he smiled, and passed away.
Ah! me, how little seemed the share that I had laid aside
To give to him who for our sake was born and crucified!
He held back naught, the last red drop flowed out for you and me:
Oh! surely he should have the best on every Christmas tree.
Genevieve Sales.