Write—with the finger of the angel-born,
Upon the tablet of the human soul,
That old December, wearied and outworn,
Drags on his failing footsteps to the goal.
Write—that the Christmas bells ring on till morn
Peace and eternal pardon to the whole,
And I, before I drop my farewell tear,
Must lay December's closing record here.
Write—for I weary; Age with failing thought
Forgets the triumph of his younger days—
Forgets the changes that himself has wrought—
Forgets the lip that tuned to woman's praise—
Forgets in summer how his fingers brought
Fresh flowers in olden time for manhood's ways,
Forgets all pleasure save an old man's word,
To think of bygone sorrows and record.
Write—ere he passes—even now they come
With wailing harps and wreaths of withered flowers,
To bind his brows and bear him to his home
Amid the multitude of buried hours—
A moment's respite ere his senses numb
And the death throe seals up his mental powers;
He shall not die, e'en in his age and dearth,
Without a legacy of good to earth.
His course has been with manhood, and his name
Has changed with human years—we yet recall
How bounding onward at the first he came,
And trembled wearily unto his fall—
How in his noon of life his strength was flame,
Spurning the very hand that gave him all,
How day by day and month by month he changed,
Till Time on old December is avenged.
The air he breathes is but ingratitude
From each unto the other—from the air
Unto the Giver of Eternal Good,
And from man to the years unceasing care.
Spirit to spirit on the moving flood,
And demon unto demon in his lair,
Jarring with discord, scarcely yet set free
From the kind measure of God's harmony.
And so he gave unto the sons of men
Last winter, snow, and ice, and driving sleet,
And the cold winds, each from his northern den,
Strewed wrecks of forest branches at our feet.
Old trees all naked shivered in the glen,
And houseless wretches shivered in the street—
It was the time when poor and cold mankind
Should know the welcome of a generous mind.
Few read the lesson—there was passing by
Of squalid poverty by gilded pride,
Wealth from the needy turned away his eye,
Rich doors to richer guests were opened wide—
Pity sought out a fancy scene to sigh
And gave not burial to the poor who died—
Beside the gourmand with his food opprest,
Mothers hugged starving infants to the breast.
Oh, not for this came winter, not for this
Rolled out the storm clouds from the northern zone,
There was a hope that gay luxurious bliss
Would not be happy in itself alone:
There was a hope that wealth might stoop to kiss
Lips paler with cold sorrow than its own—
There was a hope that severed things might blend,
And man, the selfish, soften to the friend.
The old man was but young, but thankless hearts
They say are "sharper than the adder's tooth,"
And ere the Spring came, by inhuman arts
The marble forehead was no longer smooth;
Cold blasts of scorn repaid him his deserts,
Bitter forebodings grew too often sooth,
At twenty years, they say, who knew him then,
He had grown sadder than old withered men.
Spring lay upon the garden—from his hand
Showered the blossoms and the springing buds,
The songsters sang tales of a summer land,
And a new music lived upon the floods:
And o'er the scene there waved a magic wand,
And watched the spirit of the fields and woods,
Laying in golden promise on the earth
Beauties that mocked him in their very birth.