 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
378
THE OLD MAN'S CHRISTMAS.
Why, let the wind whistle—who cares? Let it blow,
Driving hither and thither the flakes of the snow.
Let the wretches without, as they shivering pass,
Gaze with envy and hatred at me through the glass;
I am safe from the storm, with all men could desire,
A dinner of dainties, a hickory fire.
This luxury round me; all cheerful and bright;
And my sixtieth Christmas is with me to-night.
Driving hither and thither the flakes of the snow.
Let the wretches without, as they shivering pass,
Gaze with envy and hatred at me through the glass;
I am safe from the storm, with all men could desire,
A dinner of dainties, a hickory fire.
This luxury round me; all cheerful and bright;
And my sixtieth Christmas is with me to-night.
Wheel the chair around, William; the cloth take away;
Drop the curtains, and then light the taper—but stay—
Place the sherry in reach; put segars there at hand—
A dozen or so of my favorite brand.
You may go. Should I need you, the bell-rope will bring
Obedient to summons the slave of the ring:
I'm alone; but not lonely; unseen by this light,
There are guests from the past who are with me to-night.
Drop the curtains, and then light the taper—but stay—
Place the sherry in reach; put segars there at hand—
A dozen or so of my favorite brand.
You may go. Should I need you, the bell-rope will bring
Obedient to summons the slave of the ring:
I'm alone; but not lonely; unseen by this light,
There are guests from the past who are with me to-night.
First is Albert, my brother, the golden-haired one,
The pet of his mother, the youngest-born son.
He died on the ocean—the blue, swelling wave,
The home of his choice, at the last was his grave.
He comes as he went, with a frank, earnest gaze,
And he warms his wet frame in the bright, cheerful blaze.
Dead now twenty years, but his eyes are as bright—
No matter—you're welcome, dear brother, to-night.
The pet of his mother, the youngest-born son.
He died on the ocean—the blue, swelling wave,
The home of his choice, at the last was his grave.
He comes as he went, with a frank, earnest gaze,
And he warms his wet frame in the bright, cheerful blaze.
Dead now twenty years, but his eyes are as bright—
No matter—you're welcome, dear brother, to-night.
There is Milton on whom I could ever depend,
Just less than a brother, and more than a friend—
Stout Milton, who died not a twelvemonth ago,
From his home in the churchyard wades here through the snow.
He comes to spend Christmas, as often before:
But less briskly than wont seems to enter the door.
What makes him so pulseless and pallid and white?
Cheer up; we'll be jolly together to-night.
Just less than a brother, and more than a friend—
379
From his home in the churchyard wades here through the snow.
He comes to spend Christmas, as often before:
But less briskly than wont seems to enter the door.
What makes him so pulseless and pallid and white?
Cheer up; we'll be jolly together to-night.
Ah! Amy, my darling! ten years since we laid
Your body to rest in the cypress's shade.
And now you return to the husband who pressed
That sad night in anguish your form to his breast.
Come back on a visit? no! come to remain,
For I swear nothing ever shall part us again.
Thirty years since your eyes first cheered life with their light;
And yet you look younger than ever to-night.
Your body to rest in the cypress's shade.
And now you return to the husband who pressed
That sad night in anguish your form to his breast.
Come back on a visit? no! come to remain,
For I swear nothing ever shall part us again.
Thirty years since your eyes first cheered life with their light;
And yet you look younger than ever to-night.
What! Sybil, my daughter, have you too returned
To the father whose heart for you evermore yearned?
Has he whom you chose at the risk of my curse
Sent you back here to open the strings of my purse?
Why, you died through neglect of the husband who vowed
To cherish and love—died, despairing and proud.
Does the grave give you holiday? Would that it might,
And you were but living to sit here to-night.
To the father whose heart for you evermore yearned?
Has he whom you chose at the risk of my curse
Sent you back here to open the strings of my purse?
Why, you died through neglect of the husband who vowed
To cherish and love—died, despairing and proud.
Does the grave give you holiday? Would that it might,
And you were but living to sit here to-night.
All well-desired guests for the revel are near—
Wife, daughter, friend, brother—all risen and here.
Yet it seems to my judgment the sherry lacks taste,
The segar has no flavor—it all burns to waste;
The taper expires, and the gas-light sinks low;
The fire falls to embers—what troubles me so?
All here, no one missing—the list is not right;
One guest, and the greatest, is lacking to-night.
Wife, daughter, friend, brother—all risen and here.
Yet it seems to my judgment the sherry lacks taste,
The segar has no flavor—it all burns to waste;
The taper expires, and the gas-light sinks low;
The fire falls to embers—what troubles me so?
All here, no one missing—the list is not right;
One guest, and the greatest, is lacking to-night.
380
He enters at last. 'Tis a stranger to me,
So draped with dim shadows, so gaunt—who is he?
Sunk deep are his eyes, there is ice in his breath—
A guest most unwelcome! I know him—'tis Death.
Unwelcome? Not so! Most desired of them all.
His skeleton foot has a musical fall;
His shadows have changed to a halo of light—
Best friend and deliverer, welcome to-night.
So draped with dim shadows, so gaunt—who is he?
Sunk deep are his eyes, there is ice in his breath—
A guest most unwelcome! I know him—'tis Death.
Unwelcome? Not so! Most desired of them all.
His skeleton foot has a musical fall;
His shadows have changed to a halo of light—
Best friend and deliverer, welcome to-night.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |