Verses by W. H. Mallock :: :: University of Virginia Library

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS, BY A MODERN THINKER

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(AFTER MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD)

The windows of the church are bright;
'Tis Christmas Eve; a low wind breathes;
And girls with happy eyes to-night
Are hanging up the Christmas wreaths;

And village voices by-and-by
Will reach my windows through the trees,
With wild, sweet music: ‘Praise on high
To God: on earth, good-will and peace.’

Oh, happy girls, that hang the wreaths
Oh, village fiddlers, happy ye!
Christmas to you still truly breathes
Good-will and peace; but not to me.

Yes, gladness is your simple rôle,
Ye foolish girls, ye labouring poor;
But joy would ill beseem my soul—
To sigh, my part is, and endure.

For once as Rousseau stood, I stand
Apart, made picturesque by grief—
One of a small world-weary band,
The orphans of a dead belief.

Through graveyards lone we love to stray,
And sadly the sad tombs explore,
And contradict the texts which say
That we shall rise once more.

Our faith is dead, of course; and grief
Fills its room up; and Christmas pie
And turkey cannot bring relief
To such as Obermann and I.

Ah, Obermann, and might I pass
This English Christmas-tide with thee,
Far by those inland waves whose glass
Brightens and breaks by Meillerie;

Or else amongst the sternest dells
Alp shags with pine, we'd mix our sighs,
Mourn at the sound of Christmas bells,
Sniff at the smell of Christmas pies.

But thou art dead; and long, dank grass
And wet mould cool thy tired, hot brain;
Thou art lain down, and now, alas!
Of course you won't get up again.

Yet, Obermann, 'tis better so;
For if, sad slumberer, after all
You were to re-arise, you know
'Twould make us feel so very small.

Best bear our grief this manlier way,
And make our grief be balm to grief;
For if in faith sweet comfort lay,
There lurks sweet pride in unbelief.

Wherefore, remembering this, once more
Unto my childhood's church I'll go,
And bow my head at that low door
I passed through standing, long ago.

I'll sit in the accustomed place,
And make, while all the unlearnèd stare,
A mournful, atheistic face
At their vain noise of unheard prayer.

Then, while they hymn the heavenly birth
And angel voices from the skies,
My thoughts shall go where Weimar's earth
For ever darkens Goethe's eyes;

Till sweet girls' glances from their books
Shall steal towards me, and they sigh:
‘How intellectual he looks,
And yet how wistful! And his eye

Has that vain look of baffled prayer!’
And then when church is o'er I'll run,
Comb misery into all my hair,
And go and get my portrait done.