Part 29

Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe, Since my days are so nearly past, That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve Is the old man's best and last.

Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme? Art's sweet but meaningless notes? Or the music of thought, that, like the chime Of a grand cathedral, floats

Out of each word, and along each line, Into the spirit's ear, Lifting it up and making it pine For a something far from here;

Bearing the wings of the soul aloft From earth and its shadows dim; Soothing the breast with a sound as soft As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;

Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears From our being's higher part; Dimming the eyes with radiant tears That flow from a spell bound heart?

Do they want a song that is only a song, With no mystical meanings rife? Or a music that solemnly moves along -- The undertone of a life!

Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules -- A melody moves through my aged heart Not learned from the books or schools:

A music I learned in the days long gone -- I cannot tell where or how -- But no matter where, it still sounds on Back of this wrinkled brow.

And down in my heart I hear it still, Like the echoes of far-off bells; Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill Flowing through fairy dells.

But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, And what the words of the old man's song?

The world they tell me, is so giddy grown That thought is rare; And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone Hold empire there;

That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; Can it be true That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, And wise are few?

They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, With high and low; That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; Can it be so?

That lofty principle hath long been dead And in a shroud; That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, Amid the crowd.

They tell me, too, that few they are who own God's law and love; That thousands, living for this earth alone, Look not above;

That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, Men tread the path, Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse Of his dead wrath.

And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, Or to the few Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain Who still are true?

No; not for the false shall I strike the strings Of the lyre that was mute so long; If I sing at all, the gray bard sings For the few and the true his song.

And ah! there is many a changeful mood That over my spirit steals; Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, Whatever he dreams or feels.

Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve Are haunting the lonely man, Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, He'll sing them as best he can.

Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke This holiest night of the year, Who knows how its melody may wake A Christmas smile or a tear?

So on with the mystic song, With its meaning manifold -- Two tones in every word, Two thoughts in every tone; In the measured words that move along One meaning shall be heard, One thought to all be told; But under it all, to be alone -- And under it all, to all unknown -- As safe as under a coffin-lid, Deep meanings shall be hid. Find them out who can! The thoughts concealed and unrevealed In the song of the lonely man.

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I'm sitting alone in my silent room This long December night, Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom With many a picture bright. Ah! how the fire can paint! Its magic skill, how strange! How every spark On the canvas dark Draws figures and forms so quaint! And how the pictures change! One moment how they smile! And in less than a little while, In the twinkling of an eye, Like the gleam of a summer sky, The beaming smiles all die.

From gay to grave -- from grave to gay -- The faces change in the shadows gray; And just as I wonder who they are, Over them all, Like a funeral pall, The folds of the shadows droop and fall, And the charm is gone, And every one Of the pictures fade away.

Ah! the fire within my grate Hath more than Raphael's power, Is more than Raphael's peer; It paints for me in a little hour More than he in a year; And the pictures hanging 'round me here This holy Christmas eve No artist's pencil could create -- No painter's art conceive;

Ah! those cheerful faces, Wearing youthful graces! I gaze on them until I seem Half awake and half in dream. There are brows without a mark, Features bright without a shade; There are eyes without a tear; There are lips unused to sigh. Ah! never mind -- you soon shall die! All those faces soon shall fade, Fade into the dreary dark Like their pictures hanging here. -- Lo! those tearful faces, Bearing age's traces!

I gaze on them, and they on me, Until I feel a sorrow steal Through my heart so drearily; There are faces furrowed deep; There are eyes that used to weep; There are brows beneath a cloud; There are hearts that want to sleep; Never mind! the shadows creep From the death-land; and a shroud, Tenderly as mother's arm, Soon shall shield the old from harm, Soon shall wrap its robe of rest Round each sorrow-haunted breast Ah! that face of mother's, Sister's, too, and brother's -- And so many others, Dear is every name -- And Ethel! Thou art there, With thy child-face sweet and fair, And thy heart so bright In its shroud so white; Just as I saw you last In the golden, happy past; And you seem to wear Upon your hair -- Your waving, golden hair -- The smile of the setting sun. Ah! me, how years will run! But all the years cannot efface Your purest name, your sweetest grace, From the heart that still is true Of all the world to you; The other faces shine, But none so fair as thine; And wherever they are to-night, I know They look the very same As in their pictures hanging here This night, to memory dear, And painted by the flames, With tombstones in the background, And shadows for their frames.