Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve
I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary—
‘Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave,
And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery.
How long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again?
Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary
The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain,
Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be
cheery.’

Then arose a joyous clamour from the wildfowl on the mere,
Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing,
And a voice within cried—‘Listen!—Christmas carols even here!
Though thou be dumb, yet o’er their work the stars and snows
are singing.

Blind! I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through
With the thunder of my judgements even now are ringing;
Do thou fulfil thy work, but as yon wildfowl do,
Thou wilt hear no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels
singing.’
CHARLES KINGSLEY

71. A CHRISTMAS CAROL

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him,
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air:
But only His mother,
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Belovèd
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,—
Yet what I can I give Him:
Give my heart.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

72. MASTERS, IN THIS HALL

To Bethlem did they go, the shepherds three;
To Bethlem did they go, to see whe’r it were so or no,
Whether Christ were born or no
To set men free.

Masters, in this hall,
Hear ye news to-day
Brought over sea,
And ever I you pray,
Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Nowell!
Sing we clear!
Holpen are all folk on earth,
Born is God’s Son so dear.

Going over the hills
Through the milk-white snow,
Heard I ewes bleat
While the wind did blow.
Nowell, &c.

Shepherds many an one
Sat among the sheep;
No man spake more word
Than they had been asleep.
Nowell, &c.

Quoth I, ‘Fellows mine,
Why this guise sit ye?
Making but dull cheer,
Shepherds though ye be?’
Nowell, &c.

‘Shepherds should of right
Leap and dance and sing;
Thus to see ye sit
Is a right strange thing.’
Nowell, &c.

Quoth these fellows then,
‘To Bethlem town we go,
To see a mighty Lord
Lie in manger low.’
Nowell, &c.

‘How name ye this Lord,
Shepherds?’ then said I.
‘Very God,’ they said,
‘Come from heaven high.’
Nowell, &c.

Then to Bethlem town
We went two and two,
And in a sorry place
Heard the oxen low.
Nowell, &c.

Therein did we see
A sweet and goodly May,
And a fair old man;
Upon the straw she lay.
Nowell, &c.

And a little Child
On her arm had she;
‘Wot ye who This is?’
Said the hinds to me.
Nowell, &c.

Ox and ass Him know,
Kneeling on their knee:
Wondrous joy had I
This little Babe to see.
Nowell, &c.

This is Christ the Lord,
Masters, be ye glad!
Christmas is come in,
And no folk should be sad.
Nowell, &c.
WILLIAM MORRIS

73. OUTLANDERS, WHENCE COME YE LAST?

Outlanders, whence come ye last?
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
Through what green sea and great have ye passed?
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away, O masters mine,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
We come to bear you goodly wine:
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away we come to you,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
To tell of great tidings strange and true:
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

News, news of the Trinity,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
And Mary and Joseph from over the sea:
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

For as we wandered far and wide,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
What hap do ye deem there should us betide?
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

Under a bent when the night was deep,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
There lay three shepherds tending their sheep:
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘O ye shepherds, what have ye seen,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door,
To slay your sorrow and heal your teen?’
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘In an ox-stall this night we saw,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door,
A Babe and a maid without a flaw.’
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘There was an old man there beside,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door,
His hair was white and his hood was wide.’
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘And as we gazed this thing upon,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door,
Those twain knelt down to the Little One.’
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

‘And a marvellous song we straight did hear,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door,
That slew our sorrow and healed our care.’
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

News of a fair and a marvellous thing,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing!
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.
WILLIAM MORRIS

74. SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY

It is the longest night in all the year,
Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born;
Six hours ago I came and sat down here,
And ponder’d sadly, wearied and forlorn.

The winter wind that pass’d the chapel door,
Sang out a moody tune, that went right well
With mine own thoughts: I look’d down on the floor,
Between my feet, until I heard a bell

Sound a long way off through the forest deep,
And toll on steadily; a drowsiness
Came on me, so that I fell half asleep,
As I sat there not moving: less and less

I saw the melted snow that hung in beads
Upon my steel shoes; less and less I saw
Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds:
Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe

Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground,
I thought; O Galahad! the days go by,
Stop and cast up now that which you have found,
So sorely you have wrought and painfully.

Night after night your horse treads down alone
The sere damp fern, night after night you sit
Holding the bridle like a man of stone,
Dismal, unfriended, what thing comes of it.

And what if Palomydes also ride,
And over many a mountain and bare heath
Follow the questing beast with none beside?
Is he not able still to hold his breath

With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale
With weary striving, to seem best of all
To her, ‘as she is best,’ he saith? to fail
Is nothing to him, he can never fall.

For unto such a man love-sorrow is
So dear a thing unto his constant heart,
That even if he never win one kiss,
Or touch from Iseult, it will never part.

And he will never know her to be worse
Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is:
Good knight, and faithful, you have ’scaped the curse
In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss.

Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out,
Can he not think of Guenevere’s arms, round,
Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout
Till all the place grows joyful with the sound?

And when he lists can often see her face,
And think, ‘Next month I kiss you, or next week,
And still you think of me’: therefore the place
Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek.

But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find
Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow,
When all unkindly with the shifting wind,
The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know

Indeed that they will say: ‘This Galahad
If he had lived had been a right good knight;
Ah! poor chaste body!’ but they will be glad,
Not most alone, but all, when in their sight

That very evening in their scarlet sleeves
The gay-dress’d minstrels sing; no maid will talk
Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves,
Grown big upon the bushes of the walk,

East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard
To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day!
Before the trees by autumn were well bared,
I saw a damozel with gentle play,

Within that very walk say last farewell
To her dear knight, just riding out to find
(Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal,
And their last kisses sunk into my mind,

Yea, for she stood lean’d forward on his breast,
Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand,
That it might well be kiss’d, she held and press’d
Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann’d

By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind,
Till Mador de la Porte a-going by,
And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined,
And parted like a dream. In this way I,

With steeply face bent to the chapel floor,
Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly
A sharp bell rang from close beside the door,
And I leapt up when something pass’d me by,

Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind
I stagger’d after, a great sense of awe
At every step kept gathering on my mind,
Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw

One sitting on the altar as a throne,
Whose face no man could say he did not know,
And though the bell still rang, he sat alone,
With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow.

Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt,
Not as one kneels in church when mass is said,
But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt
The first time what a thing was perfect dread.

But mightily the gentle voice came down:
‘Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad,
Good knight of God, for you will see no frown
Upon my face; I came to make you glad.

‘For that you say that you are all alone,
I will be with you always, and fear not
You are uncared for, though no maiden moan
Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot,

‘He in good time shall be my servant too,
Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight,
And who has loved him alway, yea, and who
Still trusts him alway, though in all men’s sight,

‘He is just what you know, O Galahad,
This love is happy even as you say,
But would you for a little time be glad,
To make me sorry long day after day?

‘Her warm arms round his neck half throttle Me,
The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead,
Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally
Will Launcelot at one time hang his head;

‘Yea, old and shrivell’d he shall win my love.
Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul!
Not always is he able, son, to move
His love, and do it honour: needs must roll

‘The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust,
And then ’tis weary work; he strives beside
Seem better than he is, so that his trust
Is always on what chances may betide;

‘And so he wears away, my servant, too,
When all these things are gone, and wretchedly
He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who
Is no care now to Palomydes: see,

‘O good son Galahad, upon this day,
Now even, all these things are on your side,
But these you fight not for; look up, I say,
And see how I can love you, for no pride

‘Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down.
See now you have ME always; following
That holy vision, Galahad, go on,
Until at last you come to Me to sing

‘In heaven always, and to walk around
The garden where I am’: he ceased, my face
And wretched body fell upon the ground;
And when I look’d again, the holy place

Was empty; but right so the bell again
Came to the chapel-door, there entered
Two angels first, in white, without a stain,
And scarlet wings, then after them a bed,

Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath
The very altar-step, and while for fear
I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath,
Those holy ladies gently came a-near,

And quite unarm’d me, saying: ‘Galahad,
Rest here a while and sleep, and take no thought
Of any other thing than being glad;
Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought,

‘Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here.’
Right so they went away, and I, being weary,
Slept long and dream’d of heaven: the bell comes near,
I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere!

[_Enter two angels in white, with scarlet wings;
also, four ladies in gowns of red and green; also
an angel, bearing in his hands a surcoat of white,
with a red cross._]

_An Angel._

O servant of the high God, Galahad!
Rise and be arm’d, the Sangreal is gone forth
Through the great forest, and you must be had
Unto the sea that lieth on the north:

There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein
The spindles of King Solomon are laid,
And the sword that no man draweth without sin,
But if he be most pure: and there is stay’d,

Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet
In some short space upon that ship: first, though,
Will come here presently that lady sweet,
Sister of Percival, whom you well know,

And with her Bors and Percival: stand now,
These ladies will to arm you.

_First Lady_ [_putting on the hauberke_].
Galahad,
That I may stand so close beneath your brow,
I, Margaret of Antioch, am glad.

_Second Lady_ [_girding him with the sword_].
That I may stand and touch you with my hand,
O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad.

_Third Lady_ [_buckling on the spurs_].
That I may kneel while up above you stand,
And gaze at me, O holy Galahad,

I, Lucy, am most glad.

_Fourth Lady_ [_putting on the basnet_].
O gentle knight,
That you bow down to us in reverence,
We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight
Must needs fall trembling.

_Angel_ [_putting on the crossed surcoat_].
Galahad, we go hence,

For here, amid the straying of the snow,
Come Percival’s sister, Bors, and Percival.

[_The four Ladies carry out the bed, and all go but Galahad._]

_Galahad._
How still and quiet everything seems now!
They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall.

[_Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and his Sister._]

Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save!
A many marvels have been here to-night;
Tell me what news of Launcelot you have,
And has God’s body ever been in sight?

_Sir Bors._
Why, as for seeing that same holy thing,
As we were riding slowly side by side,
An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing,
And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide,

With many-colour’d raiment, but far off,
And so pass’d quickly—from the court nought good;
Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff
Kept us all merry, in a little wood

Was found all hack’d and dead; Sir Lionel
And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest,
Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well
Your father Launcelot, at the king’s behest

Went out to seek him, but was almost slain,
Perhaps is dead now; everywhere
The knights come foil’d from the great quest; in vain,
In vain they struggle for the vision fair.
WILLIAM MORRIS

75. AISHAH SCHECHINAH

A shape, like folded light, embodied air,
Yet wreath’d with flesh and warm;
All that of heaven is feminine and fair,
Moulded in visible form.

She stood, the Lady Schechinah of earth,
A chancel for the sky;
Where woke, to breath and beauty, God’s own birth
For men to see Him by.

Round her, too pure to mingle with the day,
Light, that was life, abode;
Folded within her fibres meekly lay
The link of boundless God.

So link’d, so blent, that when, with pulse fulfill’d,
Moved but that infant hand,
Far, far away, His conscious Godhead thrill’d,
And stars might understand.

Lo! where they pause, with intergathering rest,
The Threefold and the One!
And lo! He binds them to her orient breast,
His Manhood girded on.

The Zone, where two glad worlds for ever meet,
Beneath that bosom ran:
Deep in that womb, the conquering Paraclete
Smote Godhead on to man!

Sole scene among the stars, where, yearning, glide
The Threefold and the One:
Her God upon her lap, the Virgin-Bride,
Her Awful Child, her Son.
R. S. HAWKER

76. KING ARTHUR’S WAES-HAEL

THE RUBRIC

When the brown bowl is filled for yule, let the dome
or upper half be set on; then let the waes-haelers
kneel one by one and draw up the wine with their
reeds through the two bosses at the rim. Let one
breath only be drawn by each of the morice for his
waes-hael.

Waes-hael for knight and dame!
O! merry be their dole;
Drink-hael! in Jesu’s name
We fill the tawny bowl;
But cover down the curving crest,
Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast.

Waes-hael! yet lift no lid:
Drain ye the reeds for wine.
Drink-hael! the milk was hid
That soothed that Babe divine;
Hushed, as this hollow channel flows,
He drew the balsam from the rose.

Waes-hael! thus glowed the breast
Where a God yearned to cling;
Drink-hael! so Jesu pressed
Life from its mystic spring;
Then hush, and bend in reverent sign,
And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.

Waes-hael! in shadowy scene,
Lo! Christmas children we;
Drink-hael! behold we lean
At a far Mother’s knee;
To dream, that thus her bosom smiled,
And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child.
R. S. HAWKER

77. REGINA COELI

Say, did his Sisters wonder what could Joseph see
In a mild, silent little Maid like thee?
And was it awful, in that narrow house,
With God for Babe and Spouse?
Nay, like thy simple, female sort, each one
Apt to find Him in Husband and in Son,
Nothing to thee came strange in this.
Thy wonder was but wondrous bliss:
Wondrous, for, though
True Virgin lives not but does know,
(Howbeit none ever yet confess’d,)
That God lies really in her breast,
Of thine He made His special nest!
And so
All mothers worship little feet,
And kiss the very ground they’ve trod;
But, ah, thy little Baby sweet
Who was indeed thy God.
COVENTRY PATMORE

78. MARY MOTHER OF DIVINE GRACE, COMPARED TO THE AIR WE BREATHE

Wild air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,
That each eyelash or hair
Girdles; goes home betwixt
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed
Snow-flake; that’s fairly mixed
With, riddles, and is rife
In every least thing’s life;
This needful, never spent
And nursing element;
My more than meat and drink,
My meal at every wink;
This air, which, by life’s law,
My lung must draw and draw
Now, but to breathe its praise,—
Minds me in many ways
Of her who not only
Gave God’s infinity,
Dwindled to infancy,
Welcome in womb and breast,
Birth, milk, and all the rest,
But mothers each new grace
That does now reach our race,
Mary Immaculate,
Merely a woman, yet
Whose presence, power is
Great as no goddess’s
Was deemèd, dreamèd; who
This one work has to do—
Let all God’s glory through,
God’s glory, which would go
Through her and from her flow
Off, and no way but so.
I say that we are wound
With mercy round and round
As if with air: the same
Is Mary, more by name,
She, wild web, wondrous robe,
Mantles the guilty globe,
Since God has let dispense
Her prayers His providence.
Nay, more than almoner,
The sweet alms’ self is her
And men are meant to share
Her life as life does air.
If I have understood,
She holds high motherhood
Towards all our ghostly good
And plays in grace her part
About man’s beating heart,
Laying, like air’s fine flood,
The death-dance in his blood;
Yet no part but what will
Be Christ our Saviour still.
Of her flesh he took flesh:
He does take, fresh and fresh,
Though much the mystery how,
Not flesh but spirit now
And wakes, O marvellous!
New Nazareths in us,
Where she shall yet conceive
Him, morning, noon, and eve;
New Bethlems, and he born
There, evening, noon and morn—
Bethlem or Nazareth,
Men here may draw like breath
More Christ, and baffle death;
Who, born so, comes to be
New self, and nobler me
In each one, and each one
More makes, when all is done,
Both God’s and Mary’s son.
Again, look overhead
How air is azurèd.
O how! nay do but stand
Where you can lift your hand
Skywards: rich, rich it laps
Round the four finger-gaps.
Yet such a sapphire-shot,
Charged, steepèd sky will not
Stain light. Yea, mark you this:
It does no prejudice.
The glass-blue days are those
When every colour glows,
Each shape and shadow shows.
Blue be it: this blue heaven
The seven or seven times seven
Hued sunbeam will transmit
Perfect, not alter it.
Or if there does some soft
On things aloof, aloft,
Bloom breathe, that one breath more
Earth is the fairer for.
Whereas did air not make
This bath of blue and slake
His fire, the sun would shake,
A blear and blinding ball
With blackness bound, and all
The thick stars round him roll
Flashing like flecks of coal,
Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt
In grimy vasty vault.
So God was God of old;
A mother came to mould
Those limbs like ours which are
What must make our daystar
Much dearer to mankind:
Whose glory bare would blind
Or less would win man’s mind.
Through her we may see Him
Made sweeter, not made dim,
And her hand leaves His light
Sifted to suit our sight.
Be thou, then, O thou dear
Mother, my atmosphere;
My happier world wherein
To wend and meet no sin;
Above me, round me lie
Fronting my froward eye
With sweet and scarless sky;
Stir in my ears, speak there
Of God’s love, O live air,
Of patience, penance, prayer;
World-mothering air, air wild,
Wound with thee, in thee isled,
Fold home, fast fold thy child.
GERARD HOPKINS

79. A MEDITATION FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!
Whereon the eternal Lord of all things made
For us, poor mortals, and our endless bliss,
Came down from heaven; and, in a manger laid,
The first, rich, offerings of our ransom paid:
Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!

Consider what estate of fearful woe
Had then been ours, had He refused this birth;
From sin to sin tossed vainly to and fro,
Hell’s playthings, o’er a doomed and helpless earth!
Had He from us withheld His priceless worth,
Consider man’s estate of fearful woe!

Consider to what joys He bids thee rise,
Who comes, Himself, life’s bitter cup to drain!
Ah! look on this sweet Child, whose innocent eyes,
Ere all be done, shall close in mortal pain,
That thou at last Love’s Kingdom may’st attain:
Consider to what joys He bids thee rise!

Consider all this wonder, O my soul:
And in thine inmost shrine make music sweet!
Yea, let the world, from furthest pole to pole,
Join in thy praises this dread birth to greet!
Kneeling to kiss thy Saviour’s infant feet!
Consider all this wonder, O my soul!
SELWYN IMAGE

80. A MORNING SONG FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

[For Music.]

1 Wake, what unusual light doth greet
The early dusk of this our street?

2 It is the Lord! it is the Christ!
That hath the will of God sufficed;
That ere the day is born anew,
Himself is born a Child for you.

_Chorus._
The harp, the viol, and the lute,
To strike a praise unto our God!
Bring here the reeds! bring here the flute!
Wake summer from the winter’s sod!
Oh, what a feast of feasts is given
To His poor servants, by the King of Heaven!

3 Where is the Lord?

2 Here is the Lord,
At thine own door. ’Tis He, the Word;
He, at whose face, the eternal speed
Of orb on orb was changed to song.
Shall He the sound of viols heed,
Whose ears have heard so high a throng?
Shall He regard the citherns strung
To whom the morning stars have sung?

_Chorus._
Then wake, my heart, and sweep the strings,
The seven in the Lyre of Life!
Instead of lutes, the spirit sings;
With praise its quiet house is rife!
Oh, what a feast of feasts is given
To His poor servants, by the King of Heaven!

4 Who is the Lord?

2 He is the Lord,
That Light of light, that Chief of all!

1 Who is the Lord?

2 He is the Lord,
An outcast lying in a stall;
For in the inn no room is left,
While the unworthy feast instead;
He of all welcome is bereft,
And hath not where to lay His head.

1 What fitter place could I prepare,
What better cradle, say, is there
Than this my heart, if that were fair?

2 Thou hast divined! A nobler part
In man or angel, or of earth, or skies,
There is not, than a broken heart;
The which thy God may ne’er despise.

THE HYMN

_Chorus._
Lord, in my heart a little child,
Now that the snows beat far and wide,
While ever wails the tempest wild,
Good Lord abide.

Nor go Thou if the summer comes,
Nor if the summer days depart;
But chiefly make Thy home of homes,
Lord, in my heart.
HERBERT P. HORNE

81. CHRISTMAS AT SEA

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally oft the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard;
So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every ’long-shore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
‘All hands to loose topgallant sails,’ I heard the captain call.
‘By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,’ our first mate, Jackson, cried.
... ‘It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,’ he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward, just as though she understood.
As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.
R. L. STEVENSON

82. UNTO US A SON IS GIVEN

Given, not lent,
And not withdrawn—once sent,
This Infant of mankind, this One,
Is still the little welcome Son.

New every year,
New born and newly dear,
He comes with tidings and a song,
The ages long, the ages long;

Even as the cold
Keen winter grows not cold
As childhood is so fresh, foreseen,
And spring in the familiar green.

Sudden as sweet
Come the expected feet.
All joy is young, and new all art,
And He, too, whom we have by heart.
ALICE MEYNELL

83. NOEL: CHRISTMAS EVE, 1913

_Pax hominibus bonae voluntatis_

A frosty Christmas Eve when the stars were shining
Fared I forth alone where westward falls the hill,
And from many a village in the water’d valley
Distant music reach’d me peals of bells aringing:
The constellated sounds ran sprinkling on earth’s floor
As the dark vault above with stars was spangled o’er.

Then sped my thought to keep that first Christmas of all
When the shepherds watching by their folds ere the dawn
Heard music in the fields and marvelling could not tell
Whether it were angels or the bright stars singing.

Now blessed be the tow’rs that crown England so fair
That stand up strong in prayer unto God for our souls:
Blessed be their founders (said I) an’ our country folk
Who are ringing for Christ in the belfries to-night
With arms lifted to clutch the rattling ropes that race
Into the dark above and the mad romping din.

But to me heard afar it was starry music
Angels’ song, comforting as the comfort of Christ
When He spake tenderly to His sorrowful flock:
The old words came to me by the riches of time
Mellow’d and transfigured as I stood on the hill
Heark’ning in the aspect of th’ eternal silence.
ROBERT BRIDGES

84. NOËL