Book Twentieth

Approaches now the time to Christians dear,
Hallowed with grateful memories; the hour
Which startled Herod on his throne, and drew
The star-led Magi through the manger door,
Where lay the infant Saviour of a world,
More terrible to Eden's serpent vile —
Which now, affrighted, backward shrunk, chagrined,
Coiling upon himself — than was the boy,
The cradled Hercules, unto the snake
He strangled in his grasp. This is the eve,
Welcome to all, by childhood chiefly hailed,
Bringing that day the angels ushered in
O'er favoured Bethlehem; and every house
Is waked with joy, no pagan palace knew.
Now to the hearth the Christmas-log is rolled,
Huge, unassailed by severing wedge and maul:
Not the light pine, consuming in a day,
Or loud explosive chestnut whose report
Oft calls the housewife with her hurried broom;
But hickory, solid, or, more common, oak,
Whose knotted grain defies the splitting axe;
Which, once arranged, behind the andirons glows,
Devouring many a forelog, daily brought,
Till New Year rolls another in its place.

Behold where through the starry twilight air,
Across the field, with crispy footfalls, walk
Olivia and Amy, bearing each,
From Baldwin's pantry, something for the dame
Who in the lonely Oakland shadow dwells;
While Master Ethan, in his ancient coat,
Whose long skirts sweep the snow, strides on before
Bearing the fowl — no plumper crowds the roost —
To cheer the morrow's feast. Beside her door,
Already, the rough wain has tracked the snow,
And shed the winter cord; and on the sill
The miller's frequent sack, to-day, was left.
Oh, ye, who sit in warm, penurious ease,
Did ye but know the recompense which flows,
Richer than gold, unto the heart that gives,
Your very selfishness would master self,
Till, on the coldest night of all the year,
There should not be a hearth-stone unablaze;
Or in a pantry want of wherewithal
To bless the humble board, however poor!

The door approached, the comfortable flame
Gleams through unlisted crannies and the small
Four panes which make a window; while above
The cheerful smoke, shot through with frequent sparks,
Mounts on the still cold air. A hasty glance
They cast, and set their burthens down, and turn
To leave; when at the door, with startling voice,
The dame arrests them, crying, "Fly not so!
Stay yet awhile; for knowing who ye are,
I wot, there are some thanks for me to pay.
At least, fair damsels, let me pass my hand
A moment o'er your own; and, in the dark,
Perchance, I'll tell you something not amiss.
Oh, here is joy!" she cries — the while she draws
Her bony finger o'er Olivia's palm —
"So soon to come it needs no prophecy!"
Then, taking Amy's shrinking hand in her's,
With low, confiding voice she speaks: — " When times
Have changed, and bring to you the need of friends,
Beneath this humble roof one may you find.
Here is a shelter where the tainted breath,
The bad world loves to breathe, cannot invade:
Cold slander points not at a couch like mine.
This have the outcasts for their comfort; while
That low and horrid shed must yet be built,
Which hath not space enough for Peace to enter."
Thus having heard, they turn beyond the gate,
And leave her murmuring to herself; and soon
The farm-house takes them to its glowing arms.

How swell the young hearts round the evening board,
While spreads conjecture of the coming gifts!
And soon the stockings at the jamb
Are hung, convenient, where the promised saint,
Through sooty entrance, shall descend unseen.
Oh, thou brave, generous spirit, whose sure round
Comes yearly, like the snow — Saint Nicholas,
Or Santa Claus — or, in these sylvan vales,
"Kriss Kringle" called — of all the blessed saints
Which, as the legends say, revisit earth,
I have chief faith in thee! For thou dost come,
Noiseless and unobtrusive, to thy shrines,
The Christmas hearths; and to thy votaries givest,
And takest naught, save, at the early morn,
The countless thanks, from youthful hearts of joy,
Given in shouts profuse. In what strange form
Thou comest is not known; but fancy deems
Thy breast is swept with patriarchal beard,
Thy silver locks encased in downy cap,
Thy ample mantle of the softest furs,
Native to arctic climes; thy starry car —
Laden at Nuremberg's toy-crowded gables —
A sleigh, with silver runners, which through
Clouds of snow, unfallen on the frosty dark,
Flies drawn by spirits of a Lapland team,
With shadowy antlers broad, whose many bells
Are only heard in slumber's dreamy air.
Thus wilt thou come to-night; and, with the dawn,
Whether thou stayest to hear, or fliest afar,
To shade thy head a twelvemonth in thy realm —
Withdrawn, unknown — the happiest laughing voice
Sincerest of the year, shall swell with praise
And gratitude to thy mysterious name.
Along the valleys winds the coachman's horn,
Announcing his approach; and while his steeds
Are led to stable, steaming as they go,
And fresher are brought out, one traveller
Alights; and, straightway, favoured by the moon,
Takes the near path across, through field and grove,
And on the hill, which gives the vale to sight,
Stands for a moment, breathless with his joy.
His shadow, like his fancy, streaming far
And swiftly in advance, along the snow,
Full twice his wonted height the figure seems
Above his shade; while all his stately frame
Is glowing, throbbing with a new delight.
The landscape swims, confused, in manly tears;
The cottage lights, like wisps, unsteady shine,
Wavering, uncertain, as his steps renew.
Swiftly he glides, recalling every spot
Which sideway meets his eye; but still his gaze
Upon one lighted window firmly holds.
Now hath he neared the gate; and, trembling now,
Steals slowly to the door, while sounds within
The boisterous laugh of children. When this fades,
His heart so loudly thunders in his brain,
He cannot catch the voice he most would hear.
His hand is at the latch; but, ere it lifts,
The door, as by a spirit oped, swings wide,
And all the brightness of the light within
Falls on his noble form; and, like a ghost,
Breathless, Olivia before him stands.
The taper drops from out her loosened grasp;
She calls his name, and swoons into his arms;
And all the household echoes, "Arthur! Arthur!"

How speed the hours between those happy hearts!
What welcomes sweet! what fluent interchange
Of all which filled their separated past!
Ne'er were two dwellings waked with deeper joy,
Than are to-night the homes of the betrothed;
So deep that sleep, admiring, stands withdrawn,
Listening unseen beneath the midnight arch.
The morrow comes, and every neighbouring house
Is filled with gladness at the welcome news —
So much is Arthur held in their esteem.
And invitations, set for different nights,
Soon fill the coming week; when the full board
Is spread, with honour to the housewife's skill,
And choicest cider-casks are bid to flow,
While fruits and nuts go round. There, every eve,
The favoured lovers lead the country reel,
Where Envy, pale, abashed at her own voice,
Shrinks from the door to more ambitious halls.
And there, the frequent centre of a group,
The happy traveller, glowing with his theme,
Repeats the wonders of the sea or land,
Spreading, to the undoubting, marvelling eye,
The pictures which his rapid language paints,
Till many a listener takes his pack and staff,
Sailing imaginary seas, to climb
The visionary Alp, or stride the plain
Where history's various-coloured tents are pitched.