_H. S. M._

A CATCH BY THE HEARTH.

Sing we all merrily Christmas is here, The day that we love best Of days in the year.

Bring forth the holly, The box, and the bay, Deck out our cottage For glad Christmas-day.

Sing we all merrily, Draw round the fire, Sister and brother, Grandson and sire.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll h.o.a.rd it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

_H. Carey._

LITTLE MOTHER.

A GERMAN FANCY.

Little mother, why must you go?

The children play by the white bedside, The world is merry for Christmas-tide, And what would you do in the falling snow?

They sleep by now in the ember-glow, Hushed to dream in a child's delight, For wonders happen on Christmas night: Little mother, why must you go?

The flakes fall and the night grows late.

Oh, slender figure and small wet feet, Where do you haste through the lamp-lit street, And out and away by the fortress gate?

It is drear and chill where the dear lie dead, Yet light enough with the snow to see; But what would you do with that Christmas-tree At the tiny mound that is baby's bed?

A Christmas-tree with its tinsel gold!

Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee, When the children sleep in their dream of glee, Poor little grave but a twelvemonth old!

Little mother, your heart is brave, You kiss the cross in the drifted snow, Kneel for a moment, rise and go And leave your tree by the tiny grave.

While the living slept by the warm fireside, And flakes fell white on your Christmas toy, I think that its angel wept for joy Because you remembered the one that died.

_Rennell Rodd._

OCCIDENT AND ORIENT.

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas-day?

A northern Christmas, such as painters love, And kinsfolk shaking hands but once a year, And dames who tell old legends by the fire?

Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice, Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, And makes the old man merry with the young Through the short sunshine, through the longer night?

Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist, And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, And rose-buds mouldering on the dripping porch; On twilight, without rise or set of sun, Till beetles drone along the hollow lane And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then, At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, And shadows sweeping on from down to down Before the salt Atlantic gale! Yet come In whatsoever garb, or gay or sad, Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas-day.

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas-day?

To sailors lounging on the lonely deck Beneath the rushing trade-wind? or, to him Who by some noisome harbor of the east Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales, Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning, Himself half heathen? How to those--brave hearts!

Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, To free a tyrant's captives? How to those-- New patriarchs of the new-found under world-- Who stand like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, And count their flocks' increase? To them that day Shall dawn in glory, and solst.i.tial blaze Of full midsummer sun: to them that morn Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft Shall tell of naught but summer; but to them, Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, They spring into the saddle, thrills may come From that great heart of Christendom which beats Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth; Of steadfast folk, who worship G.o.d at home, Of wise words, learnt beside their mother's knee; Of innocent faces, upturned once again In awe and joy to listen to the tale Of G.o.d made man, and in a manger laid: May soften, purify, and raise the soul From selfish cares, and growing l.u.s.t of gain And phantoms of this dream, which some call life, Toward eternal facts; for here or there Summer or winter, 'twill be Christmas-day.

Blest day, which aye reminds us year by year What 'tis to be a man: to curb and spurn The tyrant in us: that ign.o.bler self Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, No purpose, save its share in that wild war In which, through countless ages, living things Compete in internecine greed--ah, G.o.d!

Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord?

That we are brutes, great G.o.d, we know too well: Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flaunt Their plumes, unheeding of the fowler's step; Spiders who catch with paper, not with webs; Tigers who slay with cannon and sharp steel, Instead of teeth and claws; all these we are.

Are we no more than these save in degree?

No more than these; and born but to compete-- To envy and devour, like beast or herb Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong l.u.s.ts, Taking the sword to perish with the sword Upon the universal battle-field, Even as the things upon the moor outside?

The heath eats up green gra.s.s and delicate flowers, The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch; And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, Eats what he lists;--the strong eat up the weak; The many eat the few; great nations, small; And he who cometh in the name of all Shall, greediest, triumph by the greed of all; And armed by his own victims, eat up all.

While even out of the eternal heavens Looks patient down the great magnanimous G.o.d Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice All to himself. Nay, but himself to one Who taught mankind on that first Christmas-day What 'twas to be a man: to give not take; To serve not rule; to nourish not devour; To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live.

Oh, blessed day which givest the eternal lie To self and sense and all the brute within; Oh, come to us, amid this war of life, To hall and hovel, come, to all who toil In senate, shop, or study; and to those Who sundered by the wastes of half a world Ill warned, and sorely tempted, ever face Nature's brute powers and men unmanned to brutes, Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas-day.

Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem, The kneeling shepherds and the Babe Divine, And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas-day.

_Charles Kingsley._

THE BLESSED DAY.

Awake, my soul, and come away: Put on thy best array; Lest if thou longer stay Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day.

Go run And bid good-morrow to the sun; Welcome his safe return To Capricorn, And that great morn Wherein a G.o.d was born, Whose story none can tell But He whose every word's a miracle.

To-day Almightiness grew weak; The Word itself was mute and could not speak.

That Jacob's star which made the sun To dazzle if he durst look on, Now mantled o'er in Bethlehem's night, Borrowed a star to show Him light!

He that begirt each zone, To whom both poles are one, Who grasped the zodiac in His hand And made it move or stand, Is now by nature man, By stature but a span; Eternity is now grown short; A King is born without a court; The water thirsts; the fountain's dry; And life, being born, made apt to die.

_Chorus._

Then let our praises emulate and vie With His humility!

Since He's exiled from skies That we might rise,-- From low estate of men Let's sing Him up again!