In The Yule-Log Glow Volume Iii Part 8

Christmas comes! He comes, he comes, Ushered with a rain of plums; Hollies in the windows greet him; Schools come driving post to meet him; Gifts precede him, bells proclaim him, Every mouth delights to name him; Wet, and cold, and wind, and dark Make him but the warmer mark; And yet he comes not one-embodied, Universal's the blithe G.o.dhead, And in every festal house Presence hath ubiquitous.

Curtains, those snug room-enfolders, Hang upon his million shoulders, And he has a million eyes Of fire, and eats a million pies, And is very merry and wise; Very wise and very merry, And loves a kiss beneath the berry.

Then full many a shape hath he, All in said ubiquity: Now is he a green array, And now an "eve," and now a "day;"

Now he's town gone _out_ of town, And now a feast in civic gown, And now the pantomime and clown With a crack upon the crown, And all sorts of tumbles down; And then he's music in the night, And the money gotten by't: He's a man that can't write verses, Bringing some to ope your purses: He's a turkey, he's a goose, He's oranges unfit for use; He's a kiss that loves to grow Underneath the mistletoe; And he's forfeits, cards, and wa.s.sails, And a king and queen with va.s.sals, All the "quizzes" of the time Drawn and quarter'd with a rhyme; And then, for their revival's sake, Lo! he's an enormous cake, With a sugar on the top, Seen before in many a shop, Where the boys could gaze forever, They think the cake so very clever.

Then, some morning, in the lurch Leaving romps, he goes to church, Looking very grave and thankful, After which he's just as prankful.

Now a saint, and now a sinner, But, above all, he's a dinner; He's a dinner, where you see Everybody's family; Beef, and pudding, and mince-pies, And little boys with laughing eyes, Whom their seniors ask arch questions, Feigning fears of indigestions As if they, forsooth, the old ones, Hadn't, privately, tenfold ones: He's a dinner and a fire, Heap'd beyond your heart's desire,-- Heap'd with log, and bak'd with coals, Till it roasts your very souls, And your cheek the fire outstares, And you all push back your chairs, And the mirth becomes too great, And you all sit up too late, Nodding all with too much head, And so go off to too much bed.

O plethora of beef and bliss!

Monkish feaster, sly of kiss!

Southern soul in body Dutch!

Glorious time of great Too-Much!

Too much heat and too much noise, Too much babblement of boys; Too much eating, too much drinking, Too much ev'rything but thinking; Solely bent to laugh and stuff, And trample upon base Enough.

Oh, right is thy instructive praise Of the wealth of Nature's ways!

Right thy most unthrifty glee, And pious thy mince-piety!

For, behold! great Nature's self Builds her no abstemious shelf, But provides (her love is such For all) her own great, good Too-Much,-- Too much gra.s.s, and too much tree, Too much air, and land, and sea, Too much seed of fruit and flower, And fish, an unimagin'd dower!

(In whose single roe shall be Life enough to stock the sea,-- Endless ichthyophagy!) Ev'ry instant through the day Worlds of life are thrown away; Worlds of life, and worlds of pleasure, Not for lavishment of treasure, But because she's so immensely Rich, and loves us so intensely.

She would have us, once for all, Wake at her benignant call, And all grow wise, and all lay down Strife, and jealousy, and frown, And, like the sons of one great mother, Share, and be blest, with one another.

_Leigh Hunt._

AN OLD ENGLISH CHRISTMAS-TIDE.

Thrice holy ring, afar and wide, The merry bells this Christmas-tide; Afar and wide, through hushed snow, From ivied minster-portico, Sweet anthems swell to tell the tale Of that young babe the shepherds hail Sitting amid their nibbling flocks What time the Hallelujah shocks The drowsy earth, and Cherubim Break through the heaven with harp and hymn.

Belated birds sing tingling notes To warm apace their chilly throats, Or they, mayhap, have caught the story And pipe their part from branches h.o.a.ry; While up aloft, his tempered beams The sun has poured in gentle streams, Sending o'er snowy hill and dell A pleasance to greet the Christmas bell!

Now every yeoman starts abroad For holly green and the ivy-tod; Good folk to kirk are soon atrip Mellow with cheer and good-fellows.h.i.+p, And cosey chimneys, here and there Puff forth the sweets o' Christmas fare.

Ho! rosy wenches and merry men From over the hill and field and fen, Great store is here, the drifts between Of myrtle red-berried, and mistletoe green!

Ho, Phyllis and Kate and bonny Nell Come hither, and buffet the goodmen well, An they gather not for hall and hearth, Fair bays to grace the evening mirth.

Aye, laugh ye well! and echoed wide Your voices sing through the Christmas-tide, And wintry winds emblend their tones At the minster-eaves with the organ groans: The carols meet with laughter sweet In a gay embrace mid the drifting sleet.

Anon the weary sun's at rest, And clouds that hovered all day by, Like silver arras down the sky Enfold him--while the winds are whist-- But not the Christmas jollity, For, little s.p.a.ce, and wa.s.sail high Flows at the board; and hautboys sound The tripping dance and merry round.

Here youths and maidens stand in row Kissing beneath the mistletoe; And many a tale of midnight rout O' Christmas-tide the woods about, Of faery meetings beneath the moon In wintry blast or summer swoon, Goes round the hearth, while all aglow The yule-log crackles the crane below.

Drink hael! good folk, by the chimney side, O sweet's the holy Christmas-tide!

Drink hael! Drink hael! and pledge again: "Here's peace on earth, good-will to men!"

_H. S. M._

SIGNS OF CHRISTMAS.

When on the barn's thatch'd roof is seen The moss in tufts of liveliest green; When Roger to the wood pile goes, And, as he turns, his fingers blows; When all around is cold and drear, Be sure that Christmas-tide is near.

When up the garden walk in vain We seek for Flora's lovely train; When the sweet hawthorn bower is bare, And bleak and cheerless is the air; When all seems desolate around, Christmas advances o'er the ground.

When Tom at eve comes home from plough, And brings the mistletoe's green bough, With milk-white berries spotted o'er, And shakes it the sly maids before, Then hangs the trophy up on high, Be sure that Christmas-tide is nigh.

When Hal, the woodman, in his clogs, Bears home the huge unwieldly logs, That, hissing on the smould'ring fire, Flame out at last a quiv'ring spire; When in his hat the holly stands, Old Christmas musters up his bands.

When cl.u.s.ter'd round the fire at night, Old William talks of ghost and sprite, And, as a distant out-house gate Slams by the wind, they fearful wait, While some each shadowy nook explore, Then Christmas pauses at the door.

When d.i.c.k comes s.h.i.+v'ring from the yard, And says the pond is frozen hard, While from his hat, all white with snow, The moisture, trickling, drops below, While carols sound, the night to cheer, Then Christmas and his train are here.

_Edwin Lees._

THE MISTLETOE.

When winter nights grow long, And winds without blow cold, We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire, And listen to stories old!

And we try to look grave, (as maids should be,) When the men bring in boughs of the Laurel-tree.

_O the Laurel, the evergreen tree!_ _The poets have laurels, and why not we?_

How pleasant, when night falls down And hides the wintry sun, To see them come in to the blazing fire, And know that their work is done; Whilst many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme, Green branches of Holly for Christmas time!

_O the Holly, the bright green Holly,_ _It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly!_

Sometimes--(in our grave house, Observe, this happeneth not;) But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs And the holly are all forgot!

And then! what then? why, the men laugh low And hang up a branch of the Mistletoe!

_O brave is the Laurel! and brave is the Holly!_ _But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy!_ _Ah, n.o.body knows, nor ever shall know,_ _What is done--under the Mistletoe._

_Bryan Waller Proctor._

CHRISTMAS OF OLD.

IN GERMANY.

Three weeks before the day whereon was born the Lord of grace, And on the Thursday, boys and girls do run in every place, And bounce and beat at every door, with blows and l.u.s.ty snaps, And cry the advent of the Lord, not born as yet, perhaps: And wis.h.i.+ng to the neighbors all, that in the houses dwell, A happy year, and everything to spring and prosper well: Here have they pears, and plums, and pence; each man gives willingly, For these three nights are always thought unfortunate to be, Wherein they are afraid of sprites and cankered witches' spite, And dreadful devils, black and grim, that then have chiefest might.

In these same days, young, wanton girls that meet for marriage be, Do search to know the names of them that shall their husbands be.

Four onions, five, or eight they take, and make in every one Such names as they do fancy most and best do think upon.

Thus near the chimney then they set, and that same onion than The first doth sprout doth surely bear the name of their good man.

Their husband's nature eke they seek to know and all his guise: When as the sun hath hid himself, and left the starry skies, Unto some woodstack do they go, and while they there do stand, Each one draws out a f.a.got stick, the next that comes to hand, Which if it straight and even be, and have no knots at all, A gentle husband then they think shall surely to them fall; But, if it foul and crooked be, and knotty here and there, A crabbed, churlish husband then they earnestly do fear.

Then comes the day wherein the Lord did bring his birth to pa.s.s, Whereas at midnight up they rise, and every man to Ma.s.s.