Christmas, 1860
I
Alone, among thy books, once more I sit;
No sound there stirs except the flapping fire;
Strange shadows of old times about me flit
As sinks the midnight lamp or flickers higher.
I see thee pace the room. With eye thought-lit
Back, back, thou oom'st once more to my desire:
Low-toned thou read'st once more the verse new-writ,
Too deep, too pure for worldlings to admire.
That brow all honour, that all gracious hand.
That cordial smile, and clear voice musical,
That noble bearing, mien of high command,
Yet void of pride — to-night I have them all.
Ah, phantoms vain of thought! The Christmas air
Is white with flying flakes. Where art thou — where?
II
To-night, upon thy roof the snows are lying;
The Christmas snows lie heavy on thy trees;
A dying dirge, that soothes the year in dying,
Swells from thy woodlands on the midnight breeze.
Our loss is ancient; many a heart is sighing
This night a late one, or by slow degrees
Heals some old wound, to God's high grace replying:
A time there was when thou wert like to these.
That cordial smile, and clear voice musical,
That noble bearing, mien of high command,
Yet void of pride — to-night I have them all.
Ah, phantoms vain of thought! The Christmas air
Is white with flying flakes. Where art thou — where?
II
To-night, upon thy roof the snows are lying;
The Christmas snows lie heavy on thy trees;
A dying dirge, that soothes the year in dying,
Swells from thy woodlands on the midnight breeze.
Our loss is ancient; many a heart is sighing
This night a late one, or by slow degrees
Heals some old wound, to God's high grace replying:
A time there was when thou wert like to these.
Where art thou? In what unimagined sphere
Liv'st thou, sojourner, or no transient guest?
By whom companioned ? Access hath she near,
In life thy nearest, and beloved the best?
What memory hast thou of thy loved ones here?
Hangs the great Vision o'er thy place of rest?
III
Sweet-sounding bells, blithe summoners to prayer!
The answer man can yield not, ye bestow;
Your answer is a little Infant bare,
Wafted to earth on night-winds whispering low.
Blow him to Bethlehem, airs angelic, blow!
There doth the Mother-maid his couch prepare.
His harbour is her bosom! Drop him there,
Soft as a snow-flake on a bank of snow.
Liv'st thou, sojourner, or no transient guest?
By whom companioned ? Access hath she near,
In life thy nearest, and beloved the best?
What memory hast thou of thy loved ones here?
Hangs the great Vision o'er thy place of rest?
III
Sweet-sounding bells, blithe summoners to prayer!
The answer man can yield not, ye bestow;
Your answer is a little Infant bare,
Wafted to earth on night-winds whispering low.
Blow him to Bethlehem, airs angelic, blow!
There doth the Mother-maid his couch prepare.
His harbour is her bosom! Drop him there,
Soft as a snow-flake on a bank of snow.
Sole Hope of man! Sole Hope for us, for thee!
"To us a Prince is given: a Child is born!"
Thou sang'st of Bethlehem, and of Calvary,
The Maid Immaculate and the twisted Thorn.
Where'er thou art, not far, not far is He
Whose banner whitens in yon Christmas morn!
~~
Aubrey Thomas de Vere (1814-1902)
from Selections from the Poems, 1894
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Aubrey Thomas de Vere biography
"To us a Prince is given: a Child is born!"
Thou sang'st of Bethlehem, and of Calvary,
The Maid Immaculate and the twisted Thorn.
Where'er thou art, not far, not far is He
Whose banner whitens in yon Christmas morn!
~~
Aubrey Thomas de Vere (1814-1902)
from Selections from the Poems, 1894
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Aubrey Thomas de Vere biography
No comments:
Post a Comment