 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
259
CHRISTMAS TOKEN.
[_]
[The writer awoke on Christmas morning and found that Santa Claus had left him a pen wiper of unique pattern—a fairy little figure, gorgeously clad—and a pleasant note, dedicating all the taste and care of its preparation to so ignoble a use.]
A WIPER.
Not such as erst in Eden wrought
For humankind such fearful trouble,
Changing its lot, with clover fraught,
For substituted chaff and stubble;
But this a simple Christmas boon
—A wipe for ink's befouling traces—
From one whose heart is all attune
With Christmas joy and Christmas graces.
For humankind such fearful trouble,
Changing its lot, with clover fraught,
For substituted chaff and stubble;
But this a simple Christmas boon
—A wipe for ink's befouling traces—
From one whose heart is all attune
With Christmas joy and Christmas graces.
I found, as morn unsealed my eyes,
What I at first supposed a fairy—
A tiny form, in gorgeous guise,
That looked remarkably like Mary;
But stony was her vacant stare,
When I, well pleased, would fain address her—
I missed the smile out-beaming there
The donor gives me—Heaven bless her!
What I at first supposed a fairy—
A tiny form, in gorgeous guise,
That looked remarkably like Mary;
But stony was her vacant stare,
When I, well pleased, would fain address her—
I missed the smile out-beaming there
The donor gives me—Heaven bless her!
260
'Tis but a trifle, well I know,
Requiring little for its buying,
But, better far than pomp or show,
The kindness that is underlying;
Profusion may attract the weak,
But 'tis a pleasure evanescent;
The cost cannot our love bespeak—
The heart must sanctify the present.
Requiring little for its buying,
But, better far than pomp or show,
The kindness that is underlying;
Profusion may attract the weak,
But 'tis a pleasure evanescent;
The cost cannot our love bespeak—
The heart must sanctify the present.
And shall those dainty garments be
Profaned by ink's tartarean touches,
And all the taste that here I see
Be marred by black, unseemly smutches?
Shall those bright eyes look sadly down,
With ever-growing perturbation,
And frown—if such can ever frown—
At such a fearful desecration?
Profaned by ink's tartarean touches,
And all the taste that here I see
Be marred by black, unseemly smutches?
Shall those bright eyes look sadly down,
With ever-growing perturbation,
And frown—if such can ever frown—
At such a fearful desecration?
No, Mary, by my Christmas hope,
I'll keep the boon, and choicely prize it;
'Twill newer inspiration ope,
As faithful memory sanctifies it.
And future years, should they be mine,
Shall mingle, with the Christmas chiming,
The thoughts of her in days lang syne
Who wrought the subject for my rhyming.
I'll keep the boon, and choicely prize it;
'Twill newer inspiration ope,
As faithful memory sanctifies it.
And future years, should they be mine,
Shall mingle, with the Christmas chiming,
The thoughts of her in days lang syne
Who wrought the subject for my rhyming.
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