In The Yule-Log Glow Volume Iv Part 22

I.

Sheath'd is the river as it glideth by, Frost-pearl'd are all the boughs of forests old, The sheep are huddling close upon the wold, And over them the stars tremble on high.

Pure joys these winter nights around me lie; 'Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets At Christmas-time, and guess from brow and pace The doom and history of each one we meet, What kind of heart beats in each dusky case; Whiles, startled by the beauty of a face In a shop-light a moment. Or instead, To dream of silent fields where calm and deep The suns.h.i.+ne lieth like a golden sleep-- Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead.

_Alexander Smith._

CHRISTMAS IN EDINBOROUGH.

II.

Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas streets, But I am sitting in my silent room, Sitting all silent in congenial gloom To-night, while half the world the other greets With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats, I sit and muse on my poetic doom; Like the dim scent within a budded rose, A joy is folded in my heart; and when I think on poets nurtured 'mong the throes And by the lowly hearths of common men,-- Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode With gorgeous music growing to a close, Deep m.u.f.fled as the dead-march of a G.o.d,-- My heart is burning to be one of those.

_Alexander Smith._

AROUND THE CHRISTMAS LAMP.

The wind may shout as it likes without; It may rage, but cannot harm us; For a merrier din shall resound within, And our Christmas cheer will warm us.

There is gladness to all at its ancient call, While its ruddy fires are gleaming, And from far and near, o'er the landscape drear, The Christmas light is streaming.

All the frozen ground is in fetters bound; Ho! the yule-log we will burn it; For Christmas is come in ev'ry home, To summer our hearts will turn it.

There is gladness to all at its ancient call, While its ruddy fires are gleaming; And from far and near, o'er the landscape drear, The Christmas light is streaming.

_J. L. Molloy._

CHRISTMAS-EVE.

Alone--with one fair star for company, The loveliest star among the hosts of night, While the gray tide ebbs with the ebbing light-- I pace along the darkening wintry sea.

Now round the yule-log and the glittering tree Twinkling with festive tapers, eyes as bright Sparkle with Christmas joys and young delight As each one gathers to his family.

But I--a waif on earth where'er I roam-- Uprooted with life's bleeding hopes and fears, From that one heart that was my heart's sole home, Feel the old pang pierce through the severing years, And as I think upon the years to come, That fair star trembles through my falling tears.

_Mathilde Blind._

WONDERLAND.

Lo! I will make my home In the beautiful Land of Books; Where the friends of childhood roam Through most delightful nooks.

I'll rent the unfinished floor In Aladdin's palace built, Whose walls, to the outer door, Are ivory and gilt.

And the Caliph--Haroun--there Will pa.s.s in his deft disguise; But him I'll know by his air So grand, and his eagle eyes.

And Cinderella, too, Will weep when her sisters whip her: And I'll be the Prince--or you-- Who will find her crystal slipper.

And O, what fun it will be With Robin the Bobbin to feast, Or to frequently call and see The Beauty and the Beast.

For she and you and I And the Rusty Dusty Miller Will eat of a Christmas-Pie With Jack the Giant-Killer.

Then come, let us make our homes In the most frequented nooks Of the land of elves and gnomes, In the beautiful Land of Books!

_Charles Henry Luders._

WAITING.

As little children in a darkened hall At Christmas-tide await the opening door, Eager to tread the fairy-haunted floor Around the tree with goodly gifts for all, Oft in the darkness to each other call,-- Trying to guess their happiness before-- Or knowing elders eagerly implore To tell what fortune unto them may fall,--

So wait we in time's dim and narrow room, And, with strange fancies or another's thought, Try to divine before the curtain rise The wondrous scene; forgetting that the gloom Must shortly flee from what the ages sought,-- The Father's long-planned gift of Paradise.

_C. H. Crandall._

AUNT MARY.

A CORNISH CHRISTMAS CHANT.

Now of all the trees by the king's highway, Which do you love the best?

O! the one that is green upon Christmas-day, The bush with the bleeding breast.

Now the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our dear Aunt Mary's tree.

Its leaves are sweet with our Saviour's name, 'Tis a plant that loves the poor: Summer and winter it s.h.i.+nes the same Beside the cottage door.

O! the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our kind Aunt Mary's tree.

'Tis a bush that the birds will never leave: They sing in it all day long; But sweetest of all upon Christmas-eve Is to hear the robin's song.

'Tis the merriest sound upon earth and sea: For it comes from our own Aunt Mary's tree.

So, of all that grow by the king's highway, I love that tree the best; 'Tis a bower for the birds upon Christmas-day, The bush of the bleeding breast.