Part 30

And thus with my pictures only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve. I'm sitting alone in my pictured room -- But, no! they have vanished all -- I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, I'm watching the ashes fall. And far away back of the cheerful blaze The beautiful visions of by-gone days Are rising before my raptured gaze. Ah! Christmas fire, so bright and warm, Hast thou a wizard's magic charm To bring those far-off scenes so near And make my past days meet me here?

Tell me -- tell me -- how is it? The past is past, and here I sit, And there, lo! there before me rise, Beyond yon glowing flame, The summer suns of childhood's skies, Yes -- yes -- the very same! I saw them rise long, long ago; I played beneath their golden glow; And I remember yet, I often cried with strange regret When in the west I saw them set And there they are again; The suns, the skies, the very days Of childhood, just beyond that blaze! But, ah! such visions almost craze The old man's puzzled brain! I thought the past was past! But, no! it cannot be; 'Tis here to-night with me!

How is it, then? the past of men Is part of one eternity -- The days of yore we so deplore, They are not dead -- they are not fled, They live and live for evermore. And thus my past comes back to me With all its visions fair.

O past! could I go back to thee, And live forever there! But, no! there's frost upon my hair; My feet have trod a path of care; And worn and wearied here I sit I am too tired to go to it.

And thus with visions only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room; But, no! the fire is dying, And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom, Are sad, and I hear them sighing. The wind hath a voice to pine -- Plaintive, and pensive and low; Hath it a heart like mine or thine? Knoweth it weal or woe? How it wails in a ghost-like strain, Just against that window pane! As if it were tired of its long, cold flight, And wanted to rest with me to-night. Cease! night-winds, cease! Why should you be sad? This is a night of joy and peace, And heaven and earth are glad! But still the wind's voice grieves! Perchance o'er the fallen leaves, Which, in their summer bloom, Danced to the music of bird and breeze, But, torn from the arms of their parent trees, Lie now in their wintry tomb -- Mute types of man's own doom.

And thus with the night winds only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

How long have I been dreaming here? Or have I dreamed at all? My fire is dead -- my pictures fled -- There's nothing left but shadows drear -- Shadows on the wall:

Shifting, flitting, Round me sitting In my old arm chair -- Rising, sinking Round me, thinking, Till, in the maze of many a dream, I'm not myself; and I almost seem Like one of the shadows there. Well, let the shadows stay! I wonder who are they? I cannot say; but I almost believe They know to-night is Christmas eve, And to-morrow Christmas day.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To change life's bitter gall to sweet, And change the sweet to gall again; To take the thorns from out our feet -- The thorns and all their dreary pain, Only to put them back again.

To take old stings from out our heart -- Old stings that made them bleed and smart -- Only to sharpen them the more, And press them back to the heart's own core.

Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve! Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears, Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers, Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, Bright and dark, and dark and bright. All these mingle, all these meet, In this great and solemn night.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To melt, with kindly glowing heat, From off our souls the snow and sleet, The dreary drift of wintry years, Only to make the cold winds blow, Only to make a colder snow; And make it drift, and drift, and drift, In flakes so icy-cold and swift, Until the heart that lies below Is cold and colder than the snow.

And thus with the shadows only, And the dreamings they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

'Tis passing fast! My fireless, lampless room Is a mass of moveless gloom; And without -- a darkness vast, Solemn -- starless -- still! Heaven and earth doth fill.

But list! there soundeth a bell, With a mystical ding, dong, dell! Is it, say, is it a funeral knell? Solemn and slow, Now loud -- now low; Pealing the notes of human woe Over the graves lying under the snow! Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell! Trembling along the gale, Under the stars and over the snow. Why is it? whence is it sounding so? Is it a toll of a burial bell?

Or is it a spirit's wail? Solemnly, mournfully, Sad -- and how lornfully! Ding, dong, dell! Whence is it? who can tell? And the marvelous notes they sink and swell, Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still! How the sounds tremble! how they thrill! Every tone So like a moan; As if the strange bell's stranger clang Throbbed with a terrible human pang.

Ding, dong, dell! Dismally, drearily, Ever so wearily. Far off and faint as a requiem plaint Floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell Piercingly -- thrillingly, Icily -- chillingly, Near -- and more near, Drearer -- and more drear, Soundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell!

Now sinking lower, It tolleth slower! I list, and I hear its sound no more. And now, methinks, I know that bell, Know it well -- know its knell -- For I often heard it sound before.

It is a bell -- yet not a bell Whose sound may reach the ear! It tolls a knell -- yet not a knell Which earthly sense may hear. In every soul a bell of dole Hangs ready to be tolled; And from that bell a funeral knell Is often outward rolled; And memory is the sexton gray Who tolls the dreary knell; And nights like this he loves to sway And swing his mystic bell. 'Twas that I heard and nothing more, This lonely Christmas eve; Then, for the dead I'll meet no more, At Christmas let me grieve.

Night, be a priest! put your star-stole on And murmur a holy prayer Over each grave, and for every one Lying down lifeless there!

And over the dead stands the high priest, Night, Robed in his shadowy stole; And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, To respond to his prayer of dole.

And list! he begins That psalm for sins, The first of the mournful seven; Plaintive and soft It rises aloft, Begging the mercy of Heaven To pity and forgive, For the sake of those who live, The dead who have died unshriven. Miserere! Miserere! Still your heart and hush your breath! The voices of despair and death Are shuddering through the psalm! Miserere! Miserere! Lift your hearts! the terror dies! Up in yonder sinless skies The psalms sound sweet and calm! Miserere! Miserere! Very low, in tender tones, The music pleads, the music moans, "I forgive and have forgiven, The dead whose hearts were shriven." De profundis! De profundis! Psalm of the dead and disconsolate! Thou hast sounded through a thousand years, And pealed above ten thousand biers; And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate Of sinners and of just, When their souls are going up to God, Their bodies down to dust. Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tears From mortal eyes that fall, And your notes evoke the darkest fears That human hearts appall! You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad, And ever your music is sad, so sad, We seem to hear murmured in every tone, For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse. Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve Over our dead on this Christmas eve. De profundis! De profundis! And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay, And the spirits immortal from far away, To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay.

You think of the dead on Christmas eve, Wherever the dead are sleeping, And we from a land where we may not grieve Look tenderly down on your weeping. You think us far, we are very near, From you and the earth, though parted; We sing to-night to console and cheer The hearts of the broken-hearted. The earth watches over the lifeless clay Of each of its countless sleepers, And the sleepless spirits that passed away Watch over all earth's weepers. We shall meet again in a brighter land, Where farewell is never spoken; We shall clasp each other in hand, And the clasp shall not be broken; We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime, Where we'll never know a sadness, And our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime, With rapture and with gladness. The snows shall pass from our graves away, And you from the earth, remember; And the flowers of a bright, eternal May, Shall follow earth's December. When you think of us think not of the tomb Where you laid us down in sorrow; But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom, And wait for the great to-morrow. And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on, Whispereth soft and low: Requiescat! Requiescat!

Peace! Peace! to every one For whom we grieve this Christmas eve, In their graves beneath the snow.

The stars in the far-off heaven Have long since struck eleven! And hark! from temple and from tower, Soundeth time's grandest midnight hour, Blessed by the Saviour's birth, And night putteth off the sable stole, Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, For one with many a starry gem, To honor the Babe of Bethlehem, Who comes to men the King of them, Yet comes without robe or diadem, And all turn towards the holy east, To hear the song of the Christmas feast.

Four thousand years earth waited, Four thousand years men prayed, Four thousand years the nations sighed, That their King so long delayed.

The prophets told His coming, The saintly for Him sighed, And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem Shone o'er them when they died.