Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possessed the earth, And calmly fell on Christmas-eve:

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost.

As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

Who show'd a token of distress?

No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?

O grief, can grief be changed to less?

O last regret, regret can die!

No--mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry.

_Third Year._

The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist.

A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know.

Like strangers' voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow'd ground.

To-night ungather'd let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger's land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.

Our father's dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone.

No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use.

Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past.

But let no footsteps beat the floor, Nor bowl of wa.s.sail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood.

Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good.

Ring out wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night: Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor; Ring in redress of all mankind.

Ring out the slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the n.o.bler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in:

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing l.u.s.t of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

_Lord Tennyson._

MY SISTER'S SLEEP.

She fell asleep on Christmas-eve: At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain naught else might yet relieve.

Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down did pray.

Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed.

Without there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup.

Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round.

I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp, strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights.

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs.

Our mother rose from where she sat: Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that.

"Glory unto the Newly Born,"

So as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas-day, Though it would still be long till morn.

Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some one had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

With anxious, softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead--should they Have broken her long-watched-for rest!

She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word; There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little s.p.a.ce.

Our mother bowed herself and wept; And both my arms fell, and I said, "G.o.d knows I knew that she was dead,"

And there, all white, my sister slept.

Then kneeling upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock, We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!"

_Dante Gabriel Rossetti._

CHRISTMAS IN EDINBOROUGH.