 | A Christmas carol |  |
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
[I]
It was the Christmas Eve;The homeless wind did grieve
Around the desolate moorland, blind with snow;
When at my wattle door—
Shelter how frail and poor!
I heard the sound of weeping—very low;
And peering forth into the wild
and dreary night—lo! on the
threshold stood a child.
II
His tiny feet were bare,The snow was in his hair,
The snow was on his fluttering raggedness.
‘Pity a little one
Out in the storm alone,’
He feebly murmured in his sore distress.
Within my arms I gathered him,
And bore with soothing words
into my chamber dim.
V
But, hungered and a-cold,Ere half my beads were told
The gentle boon of sleep to me was given;
And in a solemn dream
I saw the wondrous gleam
Of that strange star high in the Eastern heaven,
That led the Magi on their way,
What time the King of Kings
within the manger lay.
VI
I saw the Angel throng,Heard too the Heavenly song
Beside the shepherds in the fields by night,
And eager ran with them
To where in Bethlehem
We found the Holy Babe in swaddlings white;
And, kneeling in the sacred place,
I saw—and wept to see—in His
my wanderer's face!
VII
But they were tears of bliss,—And bending low to kiss
In loving awe the rosy-tender feet—
The vision passed; and—strange!
What means this mystic change
On all that doth my rapt observancemeet?
A blazing Yule-log on the hearth
Fills my late darksome cell with
light and warmth and mirth!
VIII
Upon my table bareA golden chalice fair
Shone brimmed with wine; a golden paten held
Bread broken; a pale Rood
Beside them shadowy stood;
And from the patient eyes a great love welled. . .
I turned to rouse my sleeping one;
But vacant stood the bed—and I
was all alone.
IX
I sank upon my knees,While once more on the breeze
The Christmas bells came sounding joyously;
And on a scroll o'erhead
Written in light I read
The legend; ‘Thou hast done it unto Me!’
And I forgot my sins and cares,
For then I knew He had been with
me unawares.
X
And from that hour to thisMy fire unquenched is;
By daily use unminished, on the board
Still stand the bread and wine;
And this poor cote of mine,
Yet radiant from the presence of the Lord,
Is a rich temple, where I bide
Awaiting His angel's summons,—
HIS whate'er betide.
| A Christmas carol | |