Christmas Carols and Midsummer Songs

Christmas Carols and Midsummer Songs

CHRISTMAS CAROLS

Wake from your sleep, sweet Christians, now, and listen.A little songWe have, so sweet it like a star doth glisten,And dance along.Now wake and hark: all brightly it is glowingWith yule flames merry,And o'er it many a holly sprig is growing;And scarlet berry.A bough of evergreen, with wax-lights gleaming,It bravely graces;And o'er its lines the star that's eastward beamingLeaves golden traces.Also, our little song; it sweetly praiseth,Like birds in flocksWhen morning from her bed of roses raisethHer golden locks.But this it is that makes most sweet our story,When all is said:It holds a little Child with rays of gloryAround His head.– M. E. W.

CHRISTMAS CAROLS AND MIDSUMMER SONGS

Out of the Northland bleak and bare,O wind with a royal roar,Fly, fly,Through the broad arched sky,Flutter the snow, and rattle and cryAt every silent door —Loud, loud, till the children hear,And meet the day with a ringing cheer:"Hail to the Christmas-tide!"INTO the silent waiting EastT here cometh a shining light —Far, far,Through a dull gray barClosing over a dying starThat watched away the night —Rise, rise, shine and glow,Over a wide white world of snow,Sun of the Christmas-tide!Out of the four great gates of dayA tremulous music swells;Hear, hear,Now sweet and clear,Over and under and far and near,A thousand happy bells:Joy, joy, and jubilee!Good-will to men from sea to sea,This merry Christmas-tide!Lo! in the homes of every landThe children reign to-day;They alone,With our hearts their throne,And never a sceptre but their ownSmall hands to rule and sway!Peace, peace – the Christ-child's love —Flies over the world, a white, white dove,This happy Christmas-tide!

THE SILENT CHILDREN

By Elizabeth Stuart PhelpsTHE light was low in the school-room;The day before Christmas dayHad ended. It was darkening in the gardenWhere the Silent Children play.Throughout that House of Pity,The soundless lessons said,The noiseless sport suspended,The voiceless tasks all read,The little deaf-mute children,As still as still could be,Gathered about the master,Sensitive, swift to see,With their fine attentive fingersAnd their wonderful, watchful eyes —What dumb joy he would bring themFor the Christmas eve's surprise!The lights blazed out in the school-roomThe play-ground went dark as death;The master moved in a halo;The children held their breath:"I show you now a wonder —The audiphone," he said.He spoke in their silent language,Like the language of the dead.And answering spake the children,As the dead might answer too:"But what for us, O master?This may be good for you;"But how is our Christmas comingOut of a wise machine?For not like other children'sHave our happy hours been;"And not like other children'sCan they now or ever be!"But the master smiled through the halo:"Just trust a mystery,Then to the waiting marvelThe listening children leant:Like listeners, the shadowsAcross the school-room bent,O my children, for a little,As those who suffer must!Great 'tis to bear denial,But grand it is to trust."While Science, from her silenceOf twice three thousand years,Gave her late salutationTo sealed human ears.Quick signalled then the master:Sweet sang the hidden choir —Their voices, wild and piercing,Broke like a long desireThat to content has strengthened.Glad the clear strains outrang:"Nearer to Thee, oh, nearer!"The pitying singers sang,Happy that Christmas evening:Wise was the master's choice,Who gave the deaf-mute childrenThe blessed human voice.Wise was that other Master,Tender His purpose dim,Who gave His Son on Christmas,To draw us "nearer Him.""Nearer to Thee, oh, nearer,Nearer, my God' to Thee! "Awestruck, the silent childrenHear the great harmony.We are all but silent children,Denied and deaf and dumbBefore His unknown science —Lord, if Thou wilt, we come!

A DAY IN WINTER

By Mrs. L. C. WhitonTHROUGH the crimson fires of morningStreaming upward in the East,Leaps the sun, with sudden dawning,Like a captive king released;And December skies reflectedIn the azure hue belowSeem like summer recollectedIn the dreaming of the snow. —It is winter, little children, let the summer,singing, go!There are crisp winds gaily blowingFrom the North and from the West;'Bove the river strongly flowingLies the river's frozen breast:O'er its shining silence crashingSkim the skaters to and fro;And the noonday splendors flashingIn the rainbow colors show. —It is winter, little children, let the summer,singing, go!When the gorgeous day is dying,There is swept a cloud of roseO'er the hill-tops softly lyingIn the flush of sweet repose;And the nests, all white with snowing,In the twilight breezes blow;And the untired moon is showingHer bare heart to the snow. —It is winter, little children, let the summer,singing, go!

"TWELVE O'CLOCK, AND ALL'S WELL!"

( A Christmas Rhyme of Might-Have-Been.)By M. S. E. PI KNOW of an Owl,A story-book Owl,And he dwells in a Cloudland tree,So way-high-up you never seeA glimpse of the great white fowl.And this ancient fowl,This story-book Owl,Sometimes to himself he speaks —Once in a thousand years or so —In a voice that crackles and creaksAnd never is heard by the children below:"Tu-whit! tu-whoo!I sleep by day,Of course I do —It's the sensible way."For when little children lie fast asleep,And darkness enshrouds the world so deep,And weary eyes close to gaze only in dreams,This story-book birdWith the big round eyes,Whom nothing escapes,So knowing and wise,Watches and peers, with never a wink,Into crannies and nooks where one might thinkNo danger would come, so peaceful it seems.And prying about, this story-book birdIn the snowy thickOf a Christmas eve —If you will believe —Just in the nickFound the strangest thing that ever you heard:Santa Klaus asleep,All down in a heap,On the floor of his sleighReady packed for the way!And think of the stockings swayingAt 'leven o' the night,With the silent firelightAll over them fitfully playing —A dangling hostFrom the chimney nailsAs warm as toast —But empty, pitiful,They promise a million wailsFrom just one city-full!"Tu-whit! to-whoo!Here's a to-do!"Said the sleepless bird,The wise old owl,The watchful fowl.He flew and he whirred,Soft Cloudland exploring,Led up like an arrowBy the wildest of snoring,Till he stopped,Then droppedOn the edge of a cloud —Oh, the snoring was loud! —Then stalked to that sleigh.Ah, what a fine dose! —He flashed out one claw, andTweaked Santa Klaus' nose.Santa woke with a jump,Sat up in his sleigh,Rubbed his nose —And I don't supposeUnderstands to this day —And gazing around he took in the plight,He seized his reins in the funniest fright,And down he came in the snowy midnightAll rosy and bright —The great, merry elf,Just like himself,Bluster and noise, nonsense and fun,With gifts for the children, everyone;While, soft and far, every bellChimed "Twelve o' the clock and all's well!"And the slumbering world might have heardThe great white wide-winged story-book birdA-calling "Merry Christmas!" forth in gleeAs he flew up to his Cloudland tree.And the Owl never told – I alone knew —So don't you tell, whatever you do.How near the world came to a disaster most shocking,Waking Christmas morning without a filled stocking!

HOLLY TREE

By Paul H. Hayne("Hie on the holly tree!" – Old Ballad.)THE firelight danced and waveredIn elvish, twinkling gleeOn the leaves and crimson berriesOf the great green Christmas-Tree;And the children who gathered round itBeheld, with marvelling eyes,Pendant from trunk and branchesHow many a precious prize,From the shimmer of gold and silverThrough a purse's cunning net,To the coils of a rippling necklaceThat quivered with beads of jet!But chiefly they gazed in wonderWhere flickered strangely throughThe topmost leaves of the holly,The sheen of a silken shoe!And the eldest spake to her father:"I have seen – yes, year by year,On the crown of our Christmas hollies,That small shoe glittering clear;"But you never have told who owned it,Nor why, so loftily set,It shines though the fadeless verdure —You never have told us yet!"Twas then that the museful fatherIn slow sad accents said,While the firelight hovered eerilyAbout his downcast head:"My children… you had a sister;(It was long, long, long ago,)She came like an Eden rosebud'Mid the dreariest winter snow,"And for four sweet seasons blossomedTo cheer our hearts and hearth,When the song of the Bethlehem angelsLured her away from earth —"A little before she left us,We had deftly raised to view,On the topmost branch of the holly,Yon glimmering, tiny shoe;"For again 'twas the time of Christmas,As she lay with laboring breath;But… our minds were blinded strangely,And we did not dream of death."We knew that no toy would please herLike a shoe, so fair and neat,To fold, with its soft caressing,Her delicate, sylph-like feet!"Truly, a smile like a sunbeamBrightened her eyes of blue,And once.. twice.. thrice.. she testedThe charm of her fairy shoe!"Ah! then the bright smile flickered,Faded, and drooped away,As faintly, in tones that faltered,I heard our darling say:"1 My shoe! papa, please hang itOnce more on the holly bough,Just where I am sure to see it,When I wake… an hour from now!"But alas! she never wakened!Close-shut were the eyes of blueWhose last faint gleam had fondledThe curves of that dainty shoe!"Ah, children, you understand me —Your eyes are brimmed with dew,As they watch on the Christmas hollyThe sheen of a silken shoe!"

A TALE OF A COMET

By J. T. TrowbridgeWE had seen the streaming meteors' light,With their trails of fire, the autumnnight,And talked of falling sky-rocks hurledFrom some long-since exploded world;Of comets frisking among the stars.With tails like fiery trains of cars,And asked, "Should the reckless engineerOf some rakish comet steerCrashing into our atmosphere,How would the planet's shell resist him?"Then we conversed of the solar system,And lunar men;And Doctor BenBrought out his globe, at half-past ten,And lectured, giving conclusive reasonsFor tides, eclipses, climes and seasons;Till, weary at last, I went to bed,With a jumble of wonderful things in myhead —Moons and comets and meteorites,Globes and circles and polar nights;And there I lay thinking,And drowsily winkingAt something – a ray – thro' my bed-curtainsblinking;Too bright for a star, and growing still brighter,Making the moon-lighted chamber yet lighter,Which very much astonished the writer!I gazed from the casement,And wondered, with ever-increasing amazement,What the look of alarm on the Moon's frowningface meant.His nose peering out from a very close cap,His fingers in mittens, his chin in a wrap,Like a tourist prepared for a very cold snap!On, on he sped, through the regions of space,With very short legs at a very long pace,His well-filled knapsack lashed to his back,Extra shoes and canteen strapped under his pack,His coat-tails flying away on his track —Entangled far off in the Pleiades,On the horns of the Bull and Orion's knees.For there was the Moon, and, strange to say,There too was the Earth, just over the way,Like the Doctor's globe, or a huge balloon,Forty times larger, perhaps, than the Moon,All covered with circles, and looming in space:There were groups upon it, and every faceWas turned one way; and very long-jointedTelescopes at the sky were pointed; —And there, with a terrible rushing and hummingAnd hissing of breath, was a Comet a-coming!So long and so queer, and as it came nearerIt grew every moment longer and queerer!Until I made out such a comical chap,In a red-flannel coat with a very long flap,On, on he came,With nose like a flame,So red I was sure the fellow'd been drinking(His canteen was empty, I knew by the clinking)"And what can a sober Comet be thinking,"I cried "not to see there, plain as the day,The Earth, like a target, hung right in his way?"The groups were beginning to hurry about,And hustle and bustle and signal and shout,And the Moon looked scared, while I shrieked out,"Dear sir, I beg pardon, I don't know your name —I pray you'll consider, and if it's the sameTo you, here's a planet! I don't think you knew it;But, sir, it will beA great favor to meAnd a very large circle of friends, as you see,If you will drive round it instead of right thro' it!"He put up his head with a stupefied stare,And says he, "I declare!No, I wasn't aware!And I'm going at such a deuce of a rate —I'd stop if I could, but I fear it's too late!Bless my stars! here I am!" He had just timeto stoop,When through it, head-foremost, he went at aswoop,As a circus rider dives through a hoop!With a crash,And a smash,And a roar as of thunder,It quivered,And shivered,And flew asunder:The Moon, looking down, shed tragical tears;While, winking hard and holding his ears,The Comet came out on the other side,Wheeled round, swore loud, and ruefully eyedThe ruin; sneezed two or three times; then drewHis long tail after him down the blue.Heavens and earth! what have I done!This does beat everything under the sun!I don't care the wink of a star," said he,"For all the damage done to me – "(Feeling his nose, and then with a flirtCarefully brushing away the dirtFrom his coat and its stained and draggled skirt) —"But look at this dear little, queer little planet!I've done the business for her, and I van, itIs quite too bad! The fairest of creatures —How well I remember her pleasant features,The smile on her face and the light in her eye,When I've touched my hat to her, hurrying by,Many a time, on my way through the sky!I'd mend the poor thing if I could – and I'll try!"How he got it, or where,I cannot declare;But thereupon he drew up a chair.Hung his long coat-tail over the back,Sat down by the pieces and opened his pack,Brought forth from its depths a stout needle andthread,And there he sat squinting and scratching his head,As if rather doubtfully questioning whether'Twas possible ever to patch her together!Meanwhile – but how can I hope to tellHalf that to my friends befellOn the shattered and scattered shell?How depict the huge surpriseOf some, at the very astonishing riseOf their real estate, shot off in the skies?How describe the flying blocks,The fall of steeples and railroad stocks,The breaking of banks, and the stopping of clocks;And all the various knocks and shocks; —Frantic reporters rushing about,And correspondents setting outIn a big balloon, intending from itTo interview our friend, the Comet!

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