In The Yule-Log Glow Volume Iv Part 23

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

_Robert Stephen Hawker._

THE GLAD NEW DAY.

And why should not that land rejoice, And darkness flee away, When on its dim, benighted hills Has dawned the glad new day?

For now behold the shepherds go, The wondrous babe to see; Ah, then methinks that all around Was one grand jubilee!

Rejoice, ye nations blest with peace, Let all the earth be glad; The Prince of Peace comes down to-day, In robes of pity clad.

Yea, thus should all mankind rejoice On this glad day of love; But yet, alas! how far we are From those blest heights above!

Ah! for the time when men shall spend This day as all men should, When angels shall with joy attend, And dwell among the good.

Then will this earth an Eden be, A Paradise of love; And all shall know the perfect bliss Of those bright realms above.

_Thomas Moore._

UNDER THE HOLLY BOUGH.

Ye who have scorned each other In this fast fading year, Or wronged a friend or brother, Come gather humbly here: Let sinned against and sinning Forget their strife's beginning, Be links no longer broken Beneath the holly bough, Be sweet forgiveness spoken Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have loved each other In this fast fading year, Sister, or friend, or brother, Come gather happy here: And let your hearts grow fonder As mem'ry glad shall ponder Old loves and later wooing Beneath the holly bough, So sweet in their renewing Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness In this fast fading year, Estranged from joy and gladness, Come gather hopeful here: No more let useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow; Come join in our embraces Beneath the holly bough; Take heart, uncloud your faces Beneath the holly bough.

_Charles Mackay._

THE DAWN OF CHRISTMAS.

Acold it is and middle night: The moon looks down the snow, As if an angel, clad in white, Carried her lanthorn so That, going forth the streets of light, She made an earthward glow.

A drift enfolds the chapel eaves Like downy coverlet; And, garnered into whited sheaves, The graves are harvest-set Waiting the yeoman. All the panes Are rich with rimy fret.

The s.e.xton mounts the outer stair Where chilly sparrows cower-- And bells ring down the winter air From forth the snowy tower; For, m.u.f.fled deep in drift, the clock Hath struck the Christmas hour.

And over barn, and buried stack, And out the naked copse, And where the owl sits plump and black Amid the chestnut tops-- The branches echo back the bells, Like dulcet organ stops.

For blast of wind and creak of bough And rustle of the frost, And winter's inner voice--avow The holy hour is crossed, And far, mysterious music sounds, Sweet like a harping host.

_H. S. M._

BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.

Between the moonlight and the fire, In winter evenings long ago, What ghosts I raised at your desire, To make your leaping blood run slow!

How old, how grave, how wise we grow!

What Christmas ghost can make us chill-- Save these that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will?

The beasts can talk in barn and byre On Christmas-eve, old legends know.

As one by one the years retire, We men fall silent then, I trow-- Such sights has memory to show, Such voices from the distance thrill.

Ah me! they come with Christmas snow, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Oh, children of the village choir, Your carols on the midnight throw!

Oh, bright across the mist and mire, Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!

Beat back the shades, beat down the woe, Renew the strength of mortal will; Be welcome, all, to come or go, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Friend, _sursum corda_, soon or slow We part, like guests who've joyed their fill; Forget them not, nor mourn them so, The ghosts we all can raise at will!

_Andrew Lang._

THE VILLAGE CHRISTMAS.

Meantime the village rouses up the fire: While well attested, and as well believed, Heard solemn, goes the goblin story round, Till superst.i.tious horror creeps o'er all.

Or, frequent in the sounding hall, they wake The rural gambol. Rustic mirth goes round; The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart, Easily pleased; the long, loud laugh, sincere; The kiss, s.n.a.t.c.hed hasty from the side-long maid, On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep; The leap, the slap, the haul; and, shook to notes Of native music, the respondent dance, Thus jocund fleets with them the winter-night.

_James Thomson._

WINTER.

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee, Old winter, with a rugged beard as gray As the long moss upon the apple-tree; Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose, Close m.u.f.fled up, and on thy dreary way Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.

They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old winter! seated in thy great armed-chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night; Pausing at times to rouse the smouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.

_Robert Southey._