In The Yule-Log Glow Volume Iii Part 1

In The Yule-Log Glow.

Book 3.

by Various.

BETWEEN THE TALE-TELLING.

Fancy, if you will, Gentle Reader, that, between the intervals of tale-telling,--the Yule-log still ruddy upon the visages of your fellow-guests from many lands,--fancy that a quiet traveller draws out of his side-pocket a little, well-worn pair of books from which he reads some sc.r.a.p of verse or some melodious Christmas poem. Fancy, too, that, beneath the inn windows, in the snow outside, an occasional band of the Waits strikes up an ancient carol with voice and horn, begging, when the music is done, admittance to the glowing warmth within doors and a share in the plenteous cakes and ale.

Imagine this, if you will, and choose, from the pages to come, whatever of old or new will fit well into the conceit; for not a few carols or legends lie there which have done service under the snow-covered gables or by the crackling wood, and which will help, with their quaint heartiness or simple beauty, to realize the charm of Christmas the world around,--that charm which flows from hearty and generous good-will towards men; which has for its inner light the kindly desire for peace on earth.

_Legends in Song._

"Tell sweet old tales, Sing songs as we sit bending o'er the hearth, Till the lamp flickers and the memory fails."

_Frederick Tennyson._

THE HALLOWED TIME.

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

_Shakespeare._

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious form, that light insufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant-G.o.d?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host kept watch in squadron bright?

See, how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet; O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel-quire, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

THE HYMN.

It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her l.u.s.ty paramour.

Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready Harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes an universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high up-hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need.

He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn, Or e'er the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal fingers strook; Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took; The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced night array'd; The helmed cherubim, And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

Such music as, 'tis said, Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time, And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow, And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.

For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the age of gold, And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould, And h.e.l.l itself will pa.s.s away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

But wisest Fate says No, This must not yet be so; The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbreak: The aged earth aghast With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for, from this happy day, The Old Dragon, under ground In straighter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.

Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.

No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding sh.o.r.e, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets, mourn.

In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd G.o.d of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish G.o.ds of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.