| The shepherds went their hasty
way, And found the lowly stable shed Where the Virgin-Mother lay; And now they checked their eager tread, For to the Babe that at her bosom clung A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone suspending night, While, sweeter than a mother's song, Blest angels heralded the Saviour's birth, Glory to God on high and Peace on Earth. She listened to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she prest; And while she cried, The Babe is mine! The milk rushed faster to her breast; Joy rose within her like a summer's morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born. Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate! That strife should vanish, battle cease, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet' story— Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory? And is not War a youthful king, A stately hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; Him Earth's majestic monarch's hail Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 'Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the aged father tears his child! "A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her hoard Steals all his widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. "Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease; I'm poor and of a low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me like a summer's morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born." |
—S.T. Coleridge.
| (Recitation for a boy to give before a Christmas tree is dismantled.) |
| Of all the trees in the woods
and fields There's none like the Christmas tree; Tho' rich and rare is the fruit he yields, The strangest of trees is he. Some drink their fill from the shower or rill; No cooling draught needs he; Some bend and break when the storms awake, But they reach not the Christmas tree. When wintry winds thro' the forests sweep, And snow robes the leafless limb; When cold and still is the ice-bound deep, O this is the time for him. Beneath the dome of the sunny home, He stands with all his charms; 'Mid laugh and song from the youthful throng, As they gaze on his fruitful arms. There's golden fruit on the Christmas tree, And gems for the fair and gay; The lettered page for the mind bears he, And robes for the wintry day. And there are toys for the girls and boys; And eyes that years bedim Grow strangely bright, with a youthful light, As they pluck from the pendant limb. |
The court celebrations of Christmas were observed with great splendor during the reign of King Charles the First. The royal family, with the lords and ladies, often took part themselves in the performances, and the cost to prepare costumes and sceneries for one occasion often amounted to ten thousand dollars. During Charles's reign, and preceding his, Ben Jonson wrote the plays, or masques, for Christmas. The court doings were, of course, copied outside by the people, and up to the twelfth night after Christmas, sports and feastings held high carnival.
So important were these Christmas court celebrations held by our ancestors, and of such moment were the preparations, that a special officer was appointed to take them in charge. To him were accorded large privileges, very considerable appointments, and a retinue equal to a prince's, counting in a chancellor, treasurer, comptroller, vice-chamberlain, divine, philosopher, astronomer, poet, physician, master of requests, clown, civilian, ushers, pages, footmen, messengers, jugglers, herald, orator, hunters, tumblers, friar, and fools. Over this mock court the mock monarch presided during the holidays with a reign as absolute as the actual monarch.