 | A Lost Epic and Other Poems |  |
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CHRISTMAS EVE.
The midnight Mass.
'Twas a snowy night;
But the great Cathedral was warm and bright—
Ablaze with flame and colour, and filled
With a mist of incense, and music that thrilled
The motley audience drawn together,
Despite late hours and the wild white weather—
Partly from sentiment, partly from piety,
Partly in quest of a pleasing variety—
To view the strange spectacular ritual
(For which, O Catholics, Protestants twit you ill,
For why should one rank under worship of images
This beautiful scene handed down from the dim ages?)
Near the rails of the chancel the crib was seen,
Roofed and clustered with winter-green;
On a truss of straw from the manger smiled
The golden-nimbused celestial Child;
While over the crib gleamed the star which of old
Led the Kings with their myrrh and frankincense and gold.
'Twas a snowy night;
But the great Cathedral was warm and bright—
Ablaze with flame and colour, and filled
With a mist of incense, and music that thrilled
The motley audience drawn together,
Despite late hours and the wild white weather—
Partly from sentiment, partly from piety,
Partly in quest of a pleasing variety—
To view the strange spectacular ritual
(For which, O Catholics, Protestants twit you ill,
For why should one rank under worship of images
This beautiful scene handed down from the dim ages?)
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Roofed and clustered with winter-green;
On a truss of straw from the manger smiled
The golden-nimbused celestial Child;
While over the crib gleamed the star which of old
Led the Kings with their myrrh and frankincense and gold.
The service was odd, but of singular interest;
The strains of Mozart lulled all feelings of sin to rest;
The lights, fragrance, garlands of ivy and holly tree
Moved the senses to worship—(Can that be idolatry?)—
And all had been touched to a certain extent
With a cosy religious sentiment,
When the organ stopped and the singing ceased,
And the people sat down; and a grey-haired priest
Mounted the pulpit in alb and stole,
To save, if it might be, some sectary's soul.
The strains of Mozart lulled all feelings of sin to rest;
The lights, fragrance, garlands of ivy and holly tree
Moved the senses to worship—(Can that be idolatry?)—
And all had been touched to a certain extent
With a cosy religious sentiment,
When the organ stopped and the singing ceased,
And the people sat down; and a grey-haired priest
Mounted the pulpit in alb and stole,
To save, if it might be, some sectary's soul.
At the side of the altar in pride of place
Sat my Lord Archbishop enthroned; and his Grace
Smiled out of gladness of heart as he viewed
The half-heretic curious multitude
Waiting, like furrows in spring, to receive
The seed of the faith that Christmas Eve.
Sat my Lord Archbishop enthroned; and his Grace
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The half-heretic curious multitude
Waiting, like furrows in spring, to receive
The seed of the faith that Christmas Eve.
In beautiful language the preacher spoke
Of the Syrian hills and the shepherd folk
Who heard the Angels and saw the light
As they watched their flocks in that ancient night.
And then he marked how the Lord had come
To a world that knew Him not, men who were dumb;
But to-night, oh! it was not the Angels alone
Who sang; oh, not only to these was He known;
But the whole world rejoiced in the joy of His birth!
From the East to the West round the peopled earth
As the midnight travelled it carried along
The joy of that birth, the thanksgiving of song.
Of the Syrian hills and the shepherd folk
Who heard the Angels and saw the light
As they watched their flocks in that ancient night.
And then he marked how the Lord had come
To a world that knew Him not, men who were dumb;
But to-night, oh! it was not the Angels alone
Who sang; oh, not only to these was He known;
But the whole world rejoiced in the joy of His birth!
From the East to the West round the peopled earth
As the midnight travelled it carried along
The joy of that birth, the thanksgiving of song.
As the preacher proceeded a strange thing occurred.
My Lord Archbishop first fancied he heard
The wind rising without; then a tramping of feet;
Then a hoarse vague clamour of crowds in the street;
Then wailing and sobbing and agonised screams.
Then his Grace grew aware—as a man when he dreams—
That the walls of the church were absorbed by the night,
And the snow-flakes were falling.
My Lord Archbishop first fancied he heard
The wind rising without; then a tramping of feet;
Then a hoarse vague clamour of crowds in the street;
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Then his Grace grew aware—as a man when he dreams—
That the walls of the church were absorbed by the night,
And the snow-flakes were falling.
Then, lo! a strange light
Like a cloud hid the altar; and in it there stood
Christ crowned with His thorns—pale—and ghastly with blood
From the wounds of His scourging.
Like a cloud hid the altar; and in it there stood
Christ crowned with His thorns—pale—and ghastly with blood
From the wounds of His scourging.
Behind the bright cloud,
Dimly seen, swayed a moaning, tumultuous crowd
Round a shadowy cross, which they struggled to bear.
Dimly seen, swayed a moaning, tumultuous crowd
Round a shadowy cross, which they struggled to bear.
Christ spoke: “What availeth your praise or your prayer?
What profits to hallow the day of my birth,
Yet ignore that I still am among you on earth?
Of Christ ye but dream. I am here; but ye know
The mere legend of Christ—not the Christ in His woe,
In His Church, in His flesh.”
What profits to hallow the day of my birth,
Yet ignore that I still am among you on earth?
Of Christ ye but dream. I am here; but ye know
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In His Church, in His flesh.”
From behind the bright cloud
Rose the sorrowful moan of the shadowy crowd.
Rose the sorrowful moan of the shadowy crowd.
“And these, too, are Christ! Yet who is it sees
How he scourges and pierces and slays me in these?
Behold them and know them!”
How he scourges and pierces and slays me in these?
Behold them and know them!”
Then out of the night
Came the crowd, and were seen in the cloud's mystic light.
They swept by in thousands. The sound of their woe
Filled the midnight with terror!
Came the crowd, and were seen in the cloud's mystic light.
They swept by in thousands. The sound of their woe
Filled the midnight with terror!
Whatever men know
Of the ills of the world, it was there in some form,
Flitting out of the splendour and into the storm.
All tribes and all nations, each colour of skin,
All aspects of sorrow and suffering and sin,
All the poor of all cities, all shapes of disease,
Passed sobbing and writhing.
Of the ills of the world, it was there in some form,
Flitting out of the splendour and into the storm.
All tribes and all nations, each colour of skin,
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All the poor of all cities, all shapes of disease,
Passed sobbing and writhing.
And Christ was of these—
These were Christ in His flesh! And my Lord, as they passed,
Perceived that on all, from the first to the last,
Lay a cross like a shadow.
These were Christ in His flesh! And my Lord, as they passed,
Perceived that on all, from the first to the last,
Lay a cross like a shadow.
Then lo!—in a wink
All was changed.
All was changed.
His Grace yawned.
“Have been dozing, I think!”
| A Lost Epic and Other Poems | |