GIVEN BACK ON CHRISTMAS MORN.
(A MOTHER WATCHES BY HER SICK BABE.)
Round about the casement
Wail the winds of winter;
Shaken from the frozen eaves
Many an icy splinter.
On the hillside, in the hollow,
Weaving wreaths of snow:
Now in gusts of solemn music
Lost in murmurs low;
Howling now across the wold
In its shroudlike vastness,
Like the wolves about a fold
In some Alpine fastness,
Hungered by the cold.
(THE MOTHER SINGS.)
Babe of mine—babe of mine,
Must I lose you?
Dare I weep if the Divine
Will should choose you?—
Ah, to mourn, as I have smiled,
At the thought of you, my child!
Ah, my child—my child!
Babe of mine—you entwine
With existence!
If one strips the clinging vine
There's resistance—
Shall not I then——? I talk wild,
Seeing Death so near my child:—
Ah, my child—my child!
Babe of mine—heart's best wine—
Life's pure essence!
Gloomy shadows, that define
Death's near presence.
Dim those dear eyes, undefiled
As God's violets—ah, my child:
Ah, my child—my child!
The imperial purple of the night
Is spread, wine-dark, above,
But glistens with no gems of light,
To hint of Heaven's love.
A sombre pall hangs overhead,
Fringed with lurid clouds of lead,—
O'er the sleeping earth below
One long, wide waste of silent snow,
And the wind moans drearily
As it wanders by,
And the night wanes wearily
In the starlight sky.