| First pupil: Christmas, merry Christmas! Is it really come again? With its memories and greetings, With its joys and with its pain There's a minor in the carol, And a shadow in the light, And a spray of cypress twining With the holly wreath to-night. And the hush is never broken By laughter, light and low, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow." Second pupil: Christmas, merry Christmas! 'Tis not so very long Since other voices blended With the carol and the song! If we could but hear them singing As they are singing now, If we could but see the radiance Of the crown on each dear brow; There would be no sigh to smother, No hidden tear to flow, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow." Third pupil: O Christmas, merry Christmas! This never more can be; We cannot bring again the days Of our unshadowed glee. But Christmas, happy Christmas, Sweet herald of good will, With holy songs of glory, Brings holy gladness still. For peace and hope may brighten, And patient love may glow, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow." |
—F.R. Havergal.
| Outside my window whirls the
icy storm, And beats upon its panes with fingers white; Within, my open fire burns bright and warm, And sends throughout the room its ruddy light. Low on the hearth my good grimalkin lies, His supple, glossy limbs outstretched along; Now gently sleeps with softly closèd eyes, Now, half awakened, purrs his even-song. Near to the fire, touched by its gentle heat, A silent, welcome friend, my armchair stands. Its cushioned depths invite me to its seat, And promise rest for weary head and hands. Within its depths mine eyes unheeded close, And comes to me a vision wondrous sweet. Such sights and sounds no wakeful hours disclose As then my resting, dreaming senses greet. I am where gentle shepherds on the plain Keep sleepless, faithful watch o'er resting sheep; I hear them chant the Psalmist's sweet refrain, That Israel's God will sure his promise keep. Then quick the air is full of heav'nly song, And radiant light illumines all the ground, While angel voices sweet the strain prolong, And angel faces shine in glory round. I see the shepherds' faces pale with fear, Then glow with joy and glad surprise, for then "Glory to God!" from angel lips they hear, And "Peace on earth good will to men." And then the light marks out a shining way, And swift the shepherds are the path to take. I long to go! O laggard feet, why stay? Alas! the vision fades, and I awake. Within, the smold'ring fire is burning dim; Without, the whirl and beat of storm have ceased. I still can hear the angels' peaceful hymn, And know the vision hath my peace increased. |
—Frank E. Broun in The Outlook.
| The Christmas day was coming,
the Christmas eve drew near, The fir-trees they were talking low at midnight cold and clear And this is what the fir-trees said, all in the pale moonlight, "Now which of us shall chosen be to grace the holy night?" The tall trees and the goodly trees raised each a lofty head. In glad and secret confidence, though not a word they said But one, the baby of the band, could not restrain a sigh— "You all will be approved," he said, "but, oh! what chance have I?" Then axe on shoulder to the grove a woodman took his way. One baby-girl he had at home, and he went forth to find A little tree as small as she, just suited to his mind. Oh, glad and proud the baby-fir, amid its brethren tall, To be thus chosen and singled out, the first among them all! He stretched his fragrant branches, his little heart beat fast, He was a real Christmas tree; he had his wish at last. One large and shining apple with cheeks of ruddy gold, Six tapers, and a tiny doll were all that he could hold. "I am so small, so very small, no one will mark or know How thick and green my needles are, how true my branches grow; Few toys and candles could I hold, but heart and will are free, And in my heart of hearts I know I am a Christmas tree." The Christmas angel hovered near; he caught the grieving word, And, laughing low, he hurried forth, with love and pity stirred. He sought and found St Nicholas, the dear old Christmas saint, And in his fatherly kind ear rehearsed the fir-tree's plaint. Saints are all-powerful, we know, so it befell that day, The baby laughed, the baby crowed, to see the tapers bright; The forest baby felt the joy, and shared in the delight. And when at last the tapers died, and when the baby slept, The little fir in silent night a patient vigil kept; Though scorched and brown its needles were, it had no heart to grieve. "I have not lived in vain," he said; "thank God for Christmas eve!" |
—Susan Coolidge.