 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE.
O Madam Millionnaire,
So wealthy and so fair,
I know how rich and rare
Is your Christmas-tree.
There the ruddy apples swing,
And the gilded bonbons cling,
And 't is gaudy as a king
In some Indian sea.
So wealthy and so fair,
I know how rich and rare
Is your Christmas-tree.
There the ruddy apples swing,
And the gilded bonbons cling,
And 't is gaudy as a king
In some Indian sea.
A hundred tapers shine
In the foliage of the pine,
And gifts of rare design
Make the branches gay.
And in the outer room,
Decked with satin and with plume,
Like roses in their bloom,
Sweet children play.
In the foliage of the pine,
And gifts of rare design
Make the branches gay.
And in the outer room,
Decked with satin and with plume,
Like roses in their bloom,
Sweet children play.
But this very Christmas night,
When your home 's so warm and bright,
And your children's hearts are light
As the thistle's down,
I am sitting by my hearth,
With not a ray of mirth,
But a feeling as of dearth,
And, I fear, a frown.
When your home 's so warm and bright,
And your children's hearts are light
As the thistle's down,
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With not a ray of mirth,
But a feeling as of dearth,
And, I fear, a frown.
For I'm very, very poor,
And the wolf is at my door,
And a shadow 's on my floor
That will not pass by;
But I do not envy you,
For my heart at least is true,
And, thank God, there are so few
As poor as I!
And the wolf is at my door,
And a shadow 's on my floor
That will not pass by;
But I do not envy you,
For my heart at least is true,
And, thank God, there are so few
As poor as I!
The weary mother sits
On a little stool, and knits,
While across her face there flits
Look sad to see.
Our eldest gravely sighs
With a face of sad surmise,
And our youngest darling cries
For her Christmas-tree.
On a little stool, and knits,
While across her face there flits
Look sad to see.
Our eldest gravely sighs
With a face of sad surmise,
And our youngest darling cries
For her Christmas-tree.
So I hush the little one,
And talk cheerly to my son,
And try to make some fun
Out of Christmas-trees;
And I tell them how I 've planned
A tree more fine and grand
Than ever grew on land
Or by distant seas.
And talk cheerly to my son,
And try to make some fun
Out of Christmas-trees;
And I tell them how I 've planned
A tree more fine and grand
Than ever grew on land
Or by distant seas.
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My tree is very high,—
For it reaches to the sky,
And sweet birds passing by
There fold their wings.
Its leaves are ever green,
With a wondrous glossy sheen,
And the summer wind serene
Around it sings.
For it reaches to the sky,
And sweet birds passing by
There fold their wings.
Its leaves are ever green,
With a wondrous glossy sheen,
And the summer wind serene
Around it sings.
And I 've hung upon my tree
A myriad gifts you see,
And all the world is free
To come and take.
There is love and gentle mirth,
There 's a happy home and hearth,
And “Peace to all on earth,”
For the Christ-child's sake.
A myriad gifts you see,
And all the world is free
To come and take.
There is love and gentle mirth,
There 's a happy home and hearth,
And “Peace to all on earth,”
For the Christ-child's sake.
There are sweet and soothing words
Melodious as the birds,
There is charity that herds
With the poor forlorn.
There are pardons for all wrongs,
And cheerful peasant songs,
And the virtue that belongs
To the country born.
Melodious as the birds,
There is charity that herds
With the poor forlorn.
There are pardons for all wrongs,
And cheerful peasant songs,
And the virtue that belongs
To the country born.
There are merry marriage bells,
There 's the noble heart that swells
When first young nature tells
Of great manly hopes.
And underneath, alas!
A tiny wreath we pass,
That once withered on the grass
Of Greenwood's slopes.
There 's the noble heart that swells
When first young nature tells
Of great manly hopes.
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A tiny wreath we pass,
That once withered on the grass
Of Greenwood's slopes.
So, Madam Millionnaire,
Your tree, I know, is fair,
But it can not quite compare
With this I see:
For heaven has blessed the shoots,
And fancy riped the fruits,
And my heart is round the roots
Of our Christmas-tree.
Your tree, I know, is fair,
But it can not quite compare
With this I see:
For heaven has blessed the shoots,
And fancy riped the fruits,
And my heart is round the roots
Of our Christmas-tree.
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |