Say not, sad bell, another hour hath come,
Bare for the record of a world of crime;
Toll, rather, friend, the end of hideous Time,
Wherein we bloom, live, die, yet have no home!
Bell, laurels would we o’er thy pulsing twine,
And sing thee songs of triumph with glad tears,
If to the warring of our haggard years
Thy clang should herald peace along the line!
~~
Rose Hawthorne Lathrop (1861-1926)
from Along the Shore, 1888
Last, for December, houses on the plain, Ground-floors to live in, logs heaped mountain-high, And carpets stretched, and newest games to try,
And torches lit, and gifts from man to man
(Your host, a drunkard and a Catalan); And whole dead pigs, and cunning cooks to ply Each throat with tit-bits that shall satisfy;
And wine-butts of Saint Galganus' brave span.
And be your coats well-lined and tightly bound, And wrap yourselves in cloaks of strength and weight, With gallant hoods to put your faces through.
And make your game of abject vagabond Abandoned miserable reprobate Misers; don't let them have a chance with you.
~~ Folgore da San Geminiano (?1270-1332?) translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) from The Early Italian Poets, 1861
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.
“Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar,
“Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews.”
And the people answered, “You ask in vain;
We know of no King but Herod the Great!”
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, who cannot wait.
And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king.”
So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the grey of morn;
Yes, it stopped—it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.
And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.
And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human, but divine.
His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.
They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body’s burying.
And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone,
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David’s throne.
Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.
~~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) from Keramos, and other poems, 1878
Observe, my child, this pretty scene,
And note the air of pleasure keen
With which the widow's orphan boy
Toots his tin horn, his only toy.
What need of costly gifts has he?
The widow has nowhere to flee,
And ample noise his horn emits
To drive the widow into fits.
Moral:
The philosophic mind can see
The uses of adversity.
~~ Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937) fromLeslie's Monthly, December 1902
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
And now behold this sulking boy,
His costly presents bring no joy;
Harsh tears of anger fill his eye
Tho' he has all that wealth can buy.
What profits it that he employs
His many gifts to make a noise?
His playroom is so placed that he
Can cause his folks no agony.
Moral:
Mere worldly wealth does not possess
The power of giving happiness.
~~ Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937) fromLeslie's Monthly, December 1902
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
Christmas has come, let's eat and drink —
This is no time to sit and think;
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
Let all men now get rid of care,
And what one has let others share;
Then 'tis the same, no matter which
Of us is poor, or which is rich.
Let each man have enough this day,
Since those that can are glad to pay;
There's nothing now too rich or good
For poor men, not the King's own food.
Now like a singing bird my feet
Touch earth, and I must drink and eat.
Welcome to all men: I'll not care
What any of my fellows wear;
We'll not let cloth divide our souls,
They'll swim stark naked in the bowls.
Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see
That hand of yours dislodge a flea,—
While you sit at my side and beg,
Or right foot scratching your left leg.
Farewell restraint: we will not now
Measure the ale our brains allow,
But drink as much as we can hold.
We'll count no change when we spend gold;
This is no time to save, but spend,
To give for nothing, not to lend.
Let foes make friends: let them forget
The mischief-making dead that fret
The living with complaint like this —
"He wronged us once, hate him and his."
Christmas has come; let every man
Eat, drink, be merry all he can.
Ale's my best mark, but if port wine
Or whisky's yours — let it be mine;
No matter what lies in the bowls,
We'll make it rich with our own souls.
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
~~ W.H. Davies (1871-1940) from Foliage: Various poems, 1913
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
December finds himself again a child
Even as he undergoes his age.
Cold and early darkness now descend,
Embracing sanctuaries of delight.
More and more he stares into the night,
Becoming less and less concerned with ends,
Emblem of the innocent as sage
Restored to wonder by what he must yield.
Chill the night wind moans and sighs,
On the sward the stubble dies;
Slow across the meadows rank
Float the cloud-rifts grim and dank;
On the hill-side, bare and brown,
Twilight shadows gather down, — 'Tis December.
Stark and gaunt the naked trees
Wrestle with the wrestling breeze,
While beneath, at every breath,
Dead leaves hold a dance of death;
But the pine-trees' sighing grace Greenly decks the barren place, In December.
Chirp of bird nor hum of bee
Breaks across the barren lea;
Only silence, cold and drear,
Nestles closely far and near,
While in cloak of russet gray,
Nature hides her bloom away With December.
Yet we know that, sleeping sound,
Life is waiting underground;
Till beneath his April skies
God shall bid it once more rise,
Warmth and light and beauty rest Hushed and calm, upon the breast Of December.
So, though sometimes winter skies
Hide the summer from our eyes,
Taking from its old time place Some dear form of love and grace,
We can wait, content to bear
Barren fields and frosted air, Through December —
We can wait, till some sweet dawn
Finds the shadows backward drawn,
And beneath its rosy light
Maytime flushes, warm and bright,
Bring again the bloom that fled
When the earth lay cold and dead In December.
The summer's wreath is withered on the plain, And autumn's graver garb of dusky gold
Lies strewn in sombre glen and silent lane, And winter, like a palmer sable-stoled,
Watches with cold, unsympathetic eyes
The dying year's faint, final agonies.
Ay, summer is no more; afar I hear A heavy sigh and sound among the leaves
As of the feet of those who bear a bier With wailing voices; 'tis the wind that grieves,
Seeking through lone dim vales and woodlands dun,
The bright, departed children of the sun.
And I, too, seek in places well-remembered, Some lingering token of the vanished hours;
But round me lie, all desolate and dismembered, The green, mid-forest glades and vine-roofed bowers,
Where peace, like a sweet presence, held her sway;
Nothing remains but ruin and decay.
I loiter by the ivy-mantled wall Where cling the shattered nests upon the bough,
To hear one faint and farewell echo fall Of all the music that is silent now;
In vain! the sere grass shivers on the hill,
The rushes moan beside the frozen rill.
I feel like one in lonely age returning To seek repose in haunts of happier years,
Who stands and gazes round him, vainly yearning For one dear landmark that his memory bears,
Till from his revery by some rude hand shaken, He starts and wakes and finds himself forsaken.
~~ Charles Lotin Hildreth (1853-1896) from Through the Year with the Poets: December, 1885
Alone, unseen, at this mild sober hour,
When fading Autumn with his season pale
Has ting'd the woods, I seek the ruin'd tow'r,
And mould'ring heaps, that spread the thorny dale.
Here sad reflection to the eye recalls
The spires commanding far the cheerful deeps,
The fretted pinnacles, and window'd walls,
Where now the melancholy ivy creeps.
The pond'ring stranger views with silent dread,
As to the stony cell he bends his way,
The broken roof suspended o'er his head,
Where mingling shafts and sculptur'd arms decay.
No hallow'd hymn now sounds, where wildly strown
With fragments rude the desert choir appears;
But echoing loud amid the cloysters lone
The daw's hoarse clamour meets my startled ears.
Void is the nich, where erst in holy state
Perhaps some Abbot's gorgeous image lay;
The slumb'ring brothers share their ruler's fate,
And not a stone records their useless day.
Alas! whate'er their virtues or their crimes,
'Tis all in blank oblivion buried deep;
Nor did they ween, how little future times
Would share their bliss, or for their sorrows weep.
For ev'n where droning Indolence repos'd,
Some finer souls might ache with keen distress;
And haply many a wretch full willing clos'd
His eyes, and shunn'd a life he could not bless.
Perchance some vot'ry sad of feeling heart,
As o'er the fading lawn he mus'd at eve,
Anxious might see the passing sail depart,
And call to mind a world he wept to leave.
Ev'n then some tender maid he lov'd too well,
And gave in thought th' endearing name of wife,
Might make his bleeding heart with sorrow swell,
And deeply rue his cold unsocial life;
Sad might he heave a deep-drawn sigh unseen,
And down his cheek a venial tear might fall,
To think how calm, how blest his days had been
With her, his bosom's joy, his life, his all.
The bell slow-beating thro' the gloom of night,
Might wake his soul to other thoughts than pray'r,
And, while his voice perform'd each solemn rite,
His wand'ring heart might own a tend'rer care.
So from his native woodlands torn away,
The little songster, conscious of his pain,
Sits dull and drooping all the livelong day,
And sings no more, or sings a sadder strain;
While from his joyless prison he surveys,
Flutt'ring with eager heart from side to side,
Earth's flow'ry mantle, and the budding sprays,
And hears in fancy still his long-lost bride.
~~ Edward Hamley (1764-1834)
from Poems of Various Kinds, 1795
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