From a Cornish Window / A New Edition

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

One of the finest carols written of late years is Miss Louise Imogen Guiney's Tryste Noel. It is deliberately archaic, and (for reasons hinted at above) I take deliberate archaism to be about the worst fault a modern carol-writer can commit. Also it lacks the fine simplicity of Christina Rossetti's In the bleak midwinter. I ought to dislike it, too, for its sophisticated close. Yet its curious rhythm and curious words haunt me in spite of all prejudice:—

"The Ox he openeth wide the Doore
And from the Snowe he calls her inne;
And he hath seen her smile therefore,
Our Ladye without sinne.
Now soone from Sleepe
A Starre shall leap,
And soone arrive both King and Hinde:
Amen, Amen;
But O the Place cou'd I but finde!
"The Ox hath husht his Voyce and bent
Trewe eye of Pity ore the Mow;
And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,
The Blessèd lays her Browe.
Around her feet
Full Warme and Sweete
His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell;
Amen, Amen;
But sore am I with vaine Travel!
"The Ox is Host in Juda's stall,
And Host of more than onely one,
For close she gathereth withal
Our Lorde, her little Sonne.
Glad Hinde and King
Their Gyfte may bring,
But wou'd to-night my Teares were there;
Amen, Amen;
Between her Bosom and His hayre!"

"The Ox he openeth wide the Doore
And from the Snowe he calls her inne;
And he hath seen her smile therefore,
Our Ladye without sinne.
Now soone from Sleepe
A Starre shall leap,
And soone arrive both King and Hinde:
Amen, Amen;
But O the Place cou'd I but finde!
"The Ox hath husht his Voyce and bent
Trewe eye of Pity ore the Mow;
And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,
The Blessèd lays her Browe.
Around her feet
Full Warme and Sweete
His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell;
Amen, Amen;
But sore am I with vaine Travel!
"The Ox is Host in Juda's stall,
And Host of more than onely one,
For close she gathereth withal
Our Lorde, her little Sonne.
Glad Hinde and King
Their Gyfte may bring,
But wou'd to-night my Teares were there;
Amen, Amen;
Between her Bosom and His hayre!"

The days are short. I return from this Christmas ramble and find it high time to light the lamp and pull the curtains over my Cornish Window.

"The days are sad—it is the Holy tide:
The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
And through the sunset of this purple cup
They will resume the roses of their prime,
And the old Dead will hear us and wake up,
Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!"

"The days are sad—it is the Holy tide:
The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
And through the sunset of this purple cup
They will resume the roses of their prime,
And the old Dead will hear us and wake up,
Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!"

Friends dead and friends afar—I remember you at this season, here with the log on the hearth, the holly around the picture frames and the wine at my elbow. One glass in especial to you, my old friend in the far north!—

CHRISTMAS EVE

"Friend, old friend in the manse by the fireside sitting,
Hour by hour while the grey ash drips from the log.
You with a book on your knee, your wife with her knitting,
Silent both, and between you, silent, the dog—
"Silent here in the south sit I, and, leaning,
One sits watching the fire, with chin upon hand,
Gazes deep in its heart—but ah! its meaning
Rather I read in the shadows and understand.
"Dear, kind, she is; and daily dearer, kinder,
Love shuts the door on the lamp and our two selves:
Not my stirring awakened the flame that behind her
Lit up a name in the leathern dusk of the shelves.
"Veterans are my books, with tarnished gilding:
Yet there is one gives back to the winter grate
Gold of a sunset flooding a college building,
Gold of an hour I waited—as now I wait—
"For a light step on the stair, a girl's low laughter,
Rustle of silks, shy knuckles tapping the oak,
Dinner and mirth upsetting my rooms, and, after,
Music, waltz upon waltz, till the June day broke.
"Where is her laughter now? Old tarnished covers—
You that reflect her with fresh young face unchanged—
Tell that we met, that we parted, not as lovers:
Time, chance, brought us together, and these estranged.
"Loyal we were to the mood of the moment granted,
Bruised not its bloom, but danced on the wave of its joy;
Passion, wisdom, fell back like a wall enchanted
Ringing a floor for us both—Heaven for the boy!
"Where is she now? Regretted not, though departed,
Blessings attend and follow her all her days!
—Look to your hound: he dreams of the hares he started,
Whines, and awakes, and stretches his limbs to the blaze.
"Far old friend in the manse, by the grey ash peeling
Flake by flake from the heat in the Yule log's core,
Look past the woman you love—On wall and ceiling
Climbs not a trellis of roses—and ghosts—o' yore?
"Thoughts, thoughts! Whistle them back like hounds returning—
Mark how her needles pause at a sound upstairs.
Time for bed, and to leave the log's heart burning!
Give ye good-night, but first thank God in your prayers!"

"Friend, old friend in the manse by the fireside sitting,
Hour by hour while the grey ash drips from the log.
You with a book on your knee, your wife with her knitting,
Silent both, and between you, silent, the dog—
"Silent here in the south sit I, and, leaning,
One sits watching the fire, with chin upon hand,
Gazes deep in its heart—but ah! its meaning
Rather I read in the shadows and understand.
"Dear, kind, she is; and daily dearer, kinder,
Love shuts the door on the lamp and our two selves:
Not my stirring awakened the flame that behind her
Lit up a name in the leathern dusk of the shelves.
"Veterans are my books, with tarnished gilding:
Yet there is one gives back to the winter grate
Gold of a sunset flooding a college building,
Gold of an hour I waited—as now I wait—
"For a light step on the stair, a girl's low laughter,
Rustle of silks, shy knuckles tapping the oak,
Dinner and mirth upsetting my rooms, and, after,
Music, waltz upon waltz, till the June day broke.
"Where is her laughter now? Old tarnished covers—
You that reflect her with fresh young face unchanged—
Tell that we met, that we parted, not as lovers:
Time, chance, brought us together, and these estranged.
"Loyal we were to the mood of the moment granted,
Bruised not its bloom, but danced on the wave of its joy;
Passion, wisdom, fell back like a wall enchanted
Ringing a floor for us both—Heaven for the boy!
"Where is she now? Regretted not, though departed,
Blessings attend and follow her all her days!
—Look to your hound: he dreams of the hares he started,
Whines, and awakes, and stretches his limbs to the blaze.
"Far old friend in the manse, by the grey ash peeling
Flake by flake from the heat in the Yule log's core,
Look past the woman you love—On wall and ceiling
Climbs not a trellis of roses—and ghosts—o' yore?
"Thoughts, thoughts! Whistle them back like hounds returning—
Mark how her needles pause at a sound upstairs.
Time for bed, and to leave the log's heart burning!
Give ye good-night, but first thank God in your prayers!"