And May days came, and June,
And thrice upon the ocean lay
The full orb of the moon.
And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,
Ere England sunk from view,
While yet the rippling Solent lay
In April skies of blue,
_Concert._ “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
Each morn was shouted, “pray;”
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As first in Yarmouth Bay.
_Solo._ Blew warm the breeze o’er Western seas,
Through Maytime morns and June,
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,
Low, ’neath the summer moon;
And as Cape Ann arose to view,
And Norman’s Woe they passed,
The wood-doves came the white mist through
And circled round each mast.
_Concert._ “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
Then called the leader, “pray;”
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As first in Yarmouth Bay.
_Solo._ The white wings folded, anchors down,
The sea-worn fleet in line;
Fair rose the hills where Boston town
Should rise from clouds of pine;
Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,
And placid lay the sea.
“Praise ye the Lord,” the leader called;
“Praise ye the Lord,” spake he.
_Concert._ “Give thanks to God with fervent lips,
Give thanks to God to-day.”
The anthem rose from all the ships,
Safe moored in Boston Bay.
_Solo._ That psalm our fathers sung we sing,
That psalm of peace and wars,
While o’er our heads unfolds its wing,
The flag of forty stars;
And while the nation finds a tongue
For nobler gifts to pray,
’Twill ever sing the song they sung
That first Thanksgiving Day:
_Concert._ “Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
Praise ye the Lord to-day.”
So rose the song from all the ships,
Safe moored in Boston Bay.
_Concert._ Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth’s tide,
Ho! ships of Boston Bay,
Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide
To this Thanksgiving Day!
We pray to God with fervent lips,
We praise the Lord to-day,
As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,
But psalms from Boston Bay.
THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.
ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674).
Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell,
A little house whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;
Under the sparres of which I lie
Both soft and dry;
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my doore
Is worn by th’ poore,
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat.
’Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearth
With guiltlesse mirthe,
And givest me wassaile bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soiles my land
And givest me for my bushel sown
Twice ten for one;
Thou makest my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day.
All these, and better, thou dost send
Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resigne
As wholly Thine:
But the acceptance, that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.
THANKSGIVING.
WILLIAM D. HOWELLS.
Lord, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought!
Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still!
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.
For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer;
For pain, death, sorrow, sent
Unto our chastisement;
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.
_Harper’s Magazine._
THANKSGIVING ODE.
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
Once more the liberal year laughs out
O’er richer stores than gems or gold;
Once more with harvest-song and shout
Is nature’s bloodless triumph told.
Our common mother rests and sings,
Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;
Her lap is full of goodly things,
Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.
O favors every year made new!
O gifts with rain and sunshine sent!
The bounty overruns our due;
The fullness shames our discontent.
We shut our eyes, and flowers bloom on;
We murmur, but the corn-ears fill;
We choose the shadow, but the sun
That casts it shines behind us still.
God gives us with our rugged soil
The power to make it Eden-fair,
And richer fruits to crown our toil
Than summer-wedded islands bear.
Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board of home?
Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom’s arm
Can change a rocky soil to gold;
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with Northern ices cold.
And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!
ELSIE’S THANKSGIVING.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Dolly, it’s almost Thanksgiving; do you know what that means, my dear?
No? Well, I couldn’t expect it; you haven’t been with us a year,
And you came with my auntie from Paris, far over the wide blue sea,
And you’ll keep your first Thanksgiving, my beautiful Dolly, with me.
I’ll tell you about it, my darling, for grandma’s explained it all,
So that I understand why Thanksgiving always comes late in the fall,
When the nuts and the apples are gathered, and the work in the field is
done,
And the fields, all reaped and silent, are asleep in the autumn sun.
It is then that we praise Our Father who sends the rain and the dew,
Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every morning new;
Unless we’d be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we must sing and pray,
And think about good things, Dolly, when we keep Thanksgiving Day.
But I like it very much better when from church we all go home,
And the married brothers and sisters and the troops of cousins come,
And we’re ever so long at the table, and dance and shout and play,
In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends Thanksgiving day.
THANKSGIVINGS OF OLD.
E. A. SMULLER.
Oh, the glorious Thanksgivings
Of the days that are no more!
How, with each recurring season,
Wakes their mem’ry o’er and o’er!
When the hearts of men were simpler,
And the needs of life were less,
And its mercies were not reckoned
By the measure of excess.
Heaven send the glad Thanksgiving
Of that older, simpler time!
Tarry with us, not in fancy,
Not in retrospective rhyme;
But in true and living earnest
May the spirit of that day,
Artless, plain, and unpretending,
Once again resume its sway!
CHRISTMAS.
THE DAY OF DAYS.
_Solo._ ’Twas eighteen hundred years ago,
Not in a region of ice and snow,
But far in the land of the early morn,
The oldest of lands, our Christ was born.
_Concert._ Of all the joy-days under the sun,
Of all the holidays, there’s but one
That comes to the heart, and clings to the home—
Christmas has come!
_Solo._ Still through the length of the multiplied years,
Sunshine of pleasure, and rainfall of tears,
Changes and growth in wonderful ways,
Christmas remains the great day of days.
_Concert._ The day of the hope that casteth out fear,
The day of all days that brings good cheer
In the country’s peace and the city’s hum—
Christmas has come!
_Solo._ Now in the uttermost ends of the earth
The story is told of the Christ-child’s birth;
And millions, wherever the sun’s rays fall,
Are kin in the hope that is dear to all.
_Concert._ All over the lands and far out on the seas
Is a lifting of voices and bowing of knees;
And alike to us all, if we rest or roam,
Christmas has come!
_Solo._ Wherever the blessings of mortals increase,
With customs and laws that give joy and peace;
Where science and art yield comfort and bliss,
All over the world there is no day like this.
_Concert._ Of all the joy-days under the sun,
Of all the holidays, there’s but one
That touches the heart and clings to the home—
Christmas has come!
CHRISTMAS IN OLDEN TIME.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Heap on more wood!—the wind is chill;
But, let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.
And well our Christmas sires of old
Loved, when the year its course had rolled
And brought blithe Christmas back again
With all its hospitable train,
With social and religious rite
To honor all the holy night.
On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas-eve the mass was sung.
Then opened wide the Baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed her pride.
All hailed with uncontrolled delight
And general voice the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then came the merry maskers in
And carols roared with blithesome din.
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note and strong.
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.
A CHRISTMAS THOUGHT ABOUT DICKENS.
BERTHA S. SCRANTON.
Westminster is gray at midnight,
With shadows from wall to wall;
They have noiseless feet, these shadows,
And make no sound as they fall.
But I ween they will creep together,
A goodly band to-night,
Over a silent marble name,
In the Christmas-eve twilight.
All the tiny dear child-people
We hold in our hearts to-day,
Who will live when that same marble
Has crumbled to dust away.
“Little Em’ly’s” ghost that haunteth
The minster’s shadowy aisle,
With the grave, sweet face of Agnes,
And the child-wife Dora’s smile.
Then will come, I ween, with the others,
Poor Smike with his patient air,
And the seven little Kenwigs,
With their braided tails of hair.
And Jenny Wren, I can promise,
Will surely be there again,
With her slanting rows of children,
Crying, “Who is this in pain?”
Little Nell will wake and listen,
When the white, white world is still
And the great chimes through the midnight
From the belfry tower thrill.
The little Cratchits will hearken
And wait till the goose is done,
And the voice of tiny Tim will cry,
“God bless us every one!”
But ah! for the living mourners
On either side of the sea,
For whom no more the brave hand writes,
The heart beats cheerily.
And ah! for the saddened chambers,
Where his watchers ever wait,
They unto whom life yields but pain,
And who keep its vigil late.
Westminster is gray with shadows,
But his children never die!
Through all the Christmas times to come
Will his carol notes ring high.
The dreamer has but awakened,
And the master’s work is done,
But the bells on Time’s great steeple
Ring, “God bless us every one!”
[In the following selection the numbered stanzas can be given in concert
with a musical accompaniment.]
THE STAR IN THE WEST.
QUEBEC—1635.
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
’Tis the fortress of St. Louis,
The Church of Recoverance,
And hang o’er the crystal crosses
The silver lilies of France.
In the fortress a knight lies dying,
In the church are priests at prayer,
And the bell of the Angelus sweetly
Throbs out on the crimsoned air.
The noblest knight is dying
That ever served a king,
And he looks from the fortress window
As the bells of the Angelus ring.
Old scenes come back to his vision,
Again his ship’s canvases swell
In the harbor of gray St. Malo,
In the haven of fair Rochelle.
He sees the emparadised ocean
That he dared when his years were young,
The lagoons where his lateen-sail drifted
As the Southern Cross over it hung;
Acadie, the Richelieu’s waters,
The lakes through the midlands that rolled,
And the cross that he planted wherever
He lifted the lilies of gold.
He lists to the Angelus ringing,
He folds his white hands on his breast,
And far o’er the clouded forests
A star verges low in the West!
I.
“Star on the bosom of the West,
Chime on, O bell, chime on, O bell!
To-night with visions I am blest,
And filled with light ineffable!
No angels sing in crystal air,
No clouds ’neath seraphs’ footsteps glow,
No feet of seers o’er mountains fair
A portent follows far; but lo!
A star is glowing in the West,
The world shall follow it from far—
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on!
Shine on, shine on, O Western Star!
II.
“In yonder church that storms have iced—
I founded it upon this rock—
I’ve daily kissed the feet of Christ,
In worship with my little flock.
But I am dying—I depart,
Like Simeon old my glad feet go,
A star is shining in my heart.
Such as the Magi saw; and lo!
A star is shining in the West,
The world shall hail it from afar!
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on!
Shine on, shine on, O Western Star!
III.
“Beside the Fleur de Lis of France,
The faith I’ve planted in the North,
Ye messengers of Heaven, advance;
Ye mysteries of the Cross, shine forth!
I know the value of the earth,
I’ve learned its lessons; it is done;
One soul alone outweighs in worth
The fairest kingdom of the sun.
Star on the bosom of the West,
My dim eyes follow thee afar.
Chime on, chime on, O Christmas bells!
Shine on, shine on, O golden Star!
IV.
“What rapture! hear the sweet choirs sing,
While death’s cold shadows o’er me fall,
Beneath the lilies of my King—
Go, light the lamps in yonder hall.
Mine eyes have seen the Christ Star glow
Above the New World’s temple gates.
Go forth, celestial heralds, go!
Earth’s fairest empire thee awaits!
Star on the bosom of the West,
What feet shall follow thee from far?
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on!
Shine on forever, golden Star!”
’Twas Christmas morn; the sun arose
’Mid clouds o’er the St. Lawrence broad,
And fell a sprinkling of the snows
As from the uplifted hand of God.
Dead in the fortress lay the knight,
His white hands crossed upon his breast,
Dead, he whose clear prophetic sight
Beheld the Christ Star in the West.
That morning, ’mid the turrets white,
The low flags told the empire’s last,
They hung the lilies o’er the knight,
And by the lilies set the cross.
Long, on Quebec, immortal heights,
Has Champlain slept, the knight of God;
The Western Star shines on, and lights
The growing empire, fair and broad.
And though are gone the knights of France,
Still lives the spirit of the North;
The heralds of the Star advance,
And Truth’s eternal light shines forth.
THE LITTLE MUD-SPARROWS.
(_A Jewish Legend._)
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.
I like that old sweet legend
Not found in Holy Writ,
And wish that John or Matthew
Had made Bible out of it.
But though it is not Gospel,
There is no law to hold
The heart from growing better
That hears the story told:
How the little Jewish children
Upon a summer day
Went down across the meadows
With the Child Christ to play,
And in the gold-green valley
Where low the reed-grass lay,
They made them mock mud-sparrows
Out of the meadow-clay.
So, when these all were fashioned
And ranged in flocks about,
“Now,” said the little Jesus,
“We’ll let the birds fly out.”
Then all the happy children
Did call, and coax, and cry—
Each to his own mud-sparrow:
“Fly, as I bid you—fly!”
But earthen were the sparrows,
And earth they did remain,
Though loud the Jewish children
Cried out and cried again—
Except the one bird only
The little Lord Christ made.
The earth that owned Him Master,
—His earth heard and obeyed.
Softly He leaned and whispered:
“Fly up to heaven! fly!”
And swift His little sparrow
Went soaring to the sky.
And silent all the children
Stood awe-struck looking on,
Till deep into the heavens
The bird of earth had gone.
I like to think for playmate
We have the Lord Christ still,
And that still above our weakness,
He works His mighty will;
That all our little playthings
Of earthen hopes and joys
Shall be by His commandment
Changed into heavenly toys.
Our souls are like the sparrows
Imprisoned in the clay—
Bless Him who came to give them wings,
Upon a Christmas Day!
A CHRISTMAS QUESTION.
REV. MINOT J. SAVAGE.
[For concert recitation. In order to avoid monotony in the repetition of
the question, the first line of the first stanza can be read with direct
falling slides; of the second, with direct rising slides; of the third,
with emphasis on the first word; of the fourth, with a perfect monotone;
of the fifth, with emphasis on the second word; of the sixth, with direct
rising slides.]
I.
When will He come?
A captive nation dwell upon
The river-banks of Babylon;
What is the word they speak?
The prophet’s eye looks down the years
And kindles as the sight appears—
“Messiah! him ye seek!
Lo! the Lord’s anointed comes! and then
Shall dwell the heavenly kingdom among men!”
II.
When will He come?
The Christian answers, “Long ago
The King was born in manger low.
Him wicked men have slain,
And now we wait with longing eye,
And fix our look upon the sky;
For He will come again,
We pray and watch since He has gone away;
For when He comes He’ll bring the perfect day.”
III.
When will He come?
“Lo, here! Lo, there!” the foolish shout,
And think that God will come without.
But ever has it been,
In spite of fabled tales that tell
Of magic and of miracle,
That He has come within.
Only through man, and man alone,
Does God build up his righteous throne.
IV.
When will He come?
When iron first was hammered out;
When far shores heard the seaman’s shout;
When letters first were known;
When separate tribes to nations grew;
When men their brotherhood first knew;
When law first reached the throne:
Each separate upward step that man has trod
Has been a coming of the living God.
V.
When will He come?
While you are looking far away,
His tireless feet are nigh to-day;
Each true word is His voice.
All honest work, all noble trust,
Each deed that lifts man from the dust,
Each pure and manly choice,
Each upward stair man’s toil-worn feet do climb,
Is just another birth of God sublime.
VI.
When will He come?
He’ll come to-morrow if you will;
But cease your idle sitting still.
Yes, He will come to-day.
He will not come in clouds; but through
Your doing all that you can do
To help the right alway.
Do honest work, and to the truth be true,
And God already has appeared in you.
WINGS.
DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.
“Mother, oh, make me a pair of wings,
Like the Christ-child’s adorning;
Blue as the sky, with a gold star-eye—
I’ll wear them on Christmas morning.”
The mother worked with a careless heart
All through that merry morning;
Happy and blind, nor saw behind
The shadow that gives no warning.
He struck—and over the little face
A sudden change came creeping;
Twelve struggling hours against Death’s fierce powers,
And then—he has left her sleeping.
Strange sleep that no mother’s kiss can wake!
Lay her pretty wings beside her;
Strew white flowers sweet on her hands and feet,
And under the white snow hide her.
For the Christ-child called her out of her play,
And, thus our earth-life scorning,
She went away. What, dead, we say?
_She was born_ that Christmas morning.
_Wide Awake._
THE NATIVITY.
LOUISA PARSONS HOPKINS.
From Nazareth to Bethlehem,
Their holy journey leading them
By silver-towered Jerusalem.
Beneath the palm-tree’s tossing plume,
Amid the harvest’s rich perfume,
No house could give them rest or room.
So entering at the wayside cave,
Where mountain-rills the limestone lave,
The child was born a world to save.
They laid him in the manger white;
The lowing oxen saw the sight,
And wondered at the dazzling light.
The mother’s heart in sacred bliss
Could dream no sweeter heaven than this,
To greet her babe with mother’s kiss.
And bending down with sacred awe,
For a lost world the angels saw
Love, the fulfilling of the law.
* * * * *
A Christmas day, to be perfect, should be clear and cold, with holly
branches in berry, a blazing fire, a dinner with mince-pies, and games
and forfeits in the evening. You cannot have it in perfection if you
are very fine and fashionable. A Christmas evening should, if possible,
finish with music. It carries off the excitement without abruptness, and
sheds a repose over the conclusion of enjoyment.—LEIGH HUNT.
CHRISTMAS BELLS.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
[For musical accompaniment]
I heard the bells on Christmas-day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, swinging on its way,
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursèd mouth
The cannon thundered in the South
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
“God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!”
CHRISTMAS ROSES.
MAY RILEY SMITH.
I gave into a brown and tirèd hand
A stem of roses, sweet and creamy-white.
I know the bells rang merry tunes that night,
For it was Christmas time throughout the land,
And all the skies were hung with lanterns bright.
The brown hand held my roses gracelessly;
They seemed more white within their dusky vase;
A scarlet wave suffused the woman’s face.
“My hands so seldom hold a flower,” said she,
“I think the lovely things feel out of place.”
O tirèd hands that are unused to flowers;
O feet that tread on nettles all the way!
God grant His peace may fold you round to-day,
And cling in fragrance when these Christmas hours,
With all their mirthfulness, have passed away!
NEW-YEAR’S.
ADDRESS TO THE NEW YEAR.
DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.
O good New Year! we clasp
This warm, shut hand of thine,
Loosing forever, with half sigh, half grasp,
That which from ours falls like dead fingers’ twine.
Ay, whether fierce its grasp
Has been, or gentle, having been, we know
That it was blessed: let the old year go.
Friend, come thou like a friend;
And, whether bright thy face,
Or dim with clouds we cannot comprehend,
We’ll hold our patient hands, each in his place,
And trust thee to the end,
Knowing thou leadest onwards to those spheres
Where there are neither days nor months nor years.
A NEW YEAR.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Why do we greet thee, O blithe New Year!
What are thy pledges of mirth and cheer?
Comest, knight-errant, the wrong to right?
Comest to scatter our gloom with light?
Wherefore the thrill, the sparkle and shine,
In heart and eyes at a word of thine?
The old was buoyant, the old was true,
The old was brave when the old was new.
He crowned us often with grace and gift;
His sternest skies had a deep blue rift.
Straight and swift, when his hand unclasped,
With welcome and joyance thine we grasped.
O tell us, Year—we are fain to know—
What is thy charm that we hail thee so?
Dost promise much that is fair and sweet—
The wind’s low stir in the rippling wheat,
The waves’ soft plash on the sandy floor,
The bloom of roses from shore to shore,
Glance of wings from the bowery nest,
Music and perfume from east to west,
Frosts to glitter in jeweled rime,
Blush of sunrise at morning’s prime,
Stars above us their watch to keep,
And rain and dew, though we wake or sleep?
Once more a voice, and I hear it call
Like a bugle-note from a mountain wall;
The pines uplift it with mighty sound,
The billows bear it the green earth round;
A voice that rolls in a jubilant song,
A conqueror’s ring in its echo strong;
Through the ether clear, from the solemn sky
The New Year beckons, and makes reply:
“I bring you, friends, what the years have brought
Since ever men toiled, aspired, or thought—
Days for labor, and nights for rest;
And I bring you love, a heaven-born guest;
Space to work in, and work to do,
And faith in that which is pure and true.
Hold me in honor and greet me dear,
And sooth you’ll find me a Happy Year.”
_Harper’s Bazar._
A WISH.
MARGARET VELEY.
If I could find the Little Year,
The Happy Year, the glad New Year—
If I could find him setting forth
To seek the ancient track—
I’d bring him here, the Little Year,
Like a peddler with his pack.
And all of golden brightness,
And nothing dull or black,
And all that heart could fancy,
And all that life could lack,
Should be your share of the peddlers ware,
When he undid his pack.
The best from out his treasure
A smile of yours would coax,
And then we’d speed him on his way,
At midnight’s failing strokes;
And bid him hurry round the world,
And serve the other folks!
ANOTHER YEAR.
NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
Sweetly hath passed the year; the seasons came
Duly as they were wont, the gentle spring,
And the delicious summer, and the cool,
Rich autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff—and so are chronicled.