When failed the silvery bell-notes
Till arch and aisle were still,
’Twas found that all in Ardo
Were healed of every ill.
And now, as Christmas morning
Breaks over street and square
The bells of San Stefano
Ring out upon the air;
And still the gathered people
Lift praise with glad accord
Unto the One almighty
That was their fathers’ Lord.
In the Age of the Year
Is it the wizard wind
That has shriveled the quince’s rind?
Sooth, we know it was he
Who shook the leaves from the tree
And danced them out of breath
Till they wizened away in death!
Strange and subtile powers
Have rule of these ashen hours,
Binding the stricken sphere
In this, the age of the year.
Through the crispèd grass and the husk
Rustle the feet of the Dusk;
And the only song we know
Is the back-log’s murmur low.
Then come, and sit with me
By the side of Memory
And Love, with the bluet skies
In her spring-reverting eyes,
And there shall be vernal cheer
In this, the age of the year!
A Lover’s Christmas
Fade the last embers in the year’s chill urn;
Ah, love, how red the holly berries burn!
A shroud of ermine hides the meadow ways;
Ah, love, how green are still the ivy sprays!
Black are the boughs against a sky of gray;
Ah, love, how golden is the Yule-log’s ray!