O

the Poets

F the many great and joyous festivals of the year that of Christmas awakens the strongest and tenderest associations. To the soul of mankind it comes as a blessing just at a time when the old, battlescarred year is drawing to a close and one's thoughts are travelling the old. familiar byways, lingering for a moment in the meadows where wind and bird sing their sweetest lays and flower and brook look their loveliest. The very air is charged with music; the chiming Christmas bells in the high church towers sound their tender notes over the roof-tops of the busy world in pleasant jubilee, carrying our thoughts far across the Judean hills to the stable of Bethlehem, where, centuries ago, was born the humble Prince of Peace. The beautiful story of the Shepherd-King fills our vibrant hearts with hope and love. The touching pastoral scenes, the far-off blue mountains and their grazing flocks, the midnight prayers of the shepherds, grown eager with longing, the march of the hopes which their glorious dream was to bring them all these come to us, who are tired of life's ceaseless "Sturm und Drang." Our wavering spirits grow strong in the faith which was brought to a weary and discontented world nearly two thousand years ago when the angels sang their simple message of peace and good will into the hearts of the children of men.

"There is something in the very season of the year," writes one, "that gives charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape and we live abroad and

everywhere.' The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth, with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven, with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence-all fill us with mute but ex

quisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short, gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused."

Sings the poet :

"It is Christmas in the forest where the softly falling snow

Seems to touch with benediction the waiting earth below.

The long, slim fingers of the wind upon the barren trees

Play Nature's Alleluia in a multitude of keys. And bird and beast they wake alike to join a common note,

And swell the reverend carol that wells up from Nature's throat.

There is music in the woods, though the

paths be yet untrod,

When all the world goes singing at the birthday of its God."

The old yule-log, too, is blazing in the traditional fireplace, and a kind of artificial summer pervades the room, filling it with warmth and brightness. Heart calls unto heart, and love sunshines the

merry faces of the little children grouped around listening to the reminiscent tales of grandfather or grandmother, recalling those dear Christmasses of old:

"Christmas, like it used to be!
That's the kind would gladden me,
Kith and kin from far and near
Joining in the Christmas cheer.
Oh, the laughing girls and boys!
Oh, the feasting and the joys!
Wouldn't it be good to see
Christmas, like it used to be?
"Christmas, like it used to be-
Snow a-bending bush and tree,
Bells a-jingling down the lane;
Cousins John and Jim and Jane,
Sue and Kate and all the rest,
Dressed up in their Sunday best,
Coming to that world of glee-
Christmas, like it used to be.
"Christmas, like it used to be;
Been a long, long time since we
Wished (when Santa Claus should come)
You a doll and I a drum,

You a book and I a sled
Strong and swift and painted red;
Oh, that day of jubilee!
Christmas, like it used to be.
"Christmas, like it used to be.
It is still as glad and free
And as fair and full of truth
To the clearer eyes of youth.
Could we gladly glimpse it through
Eyes our children's children do,
In their joy time we would see
Christmas, like it used to be."

The yule-log, dating back to old English times, is still much in evidence even at this late day. Every squire's house had its fireplace, decorated with helmets, bucklers and lances, and at Christmas the yule-log was lit with great ceremony. While it was burning, songs were sung, tales were told and wine flowed freely. The yule-log was destined to burn all night. If it went out, it was considered by the family an omen of some impending calamity. Then, too, if a squinting or barefoot person came to the house while it was blazing, it was considered a sign of ill luck.

Herrick, in one of his stanzas, refers to the ancient, custom :

"Come, bring with noise,

My merrie, merrie boys,

The Christmas log to the firing,
While my good dame, she

Bids ye all be free

And drink to your heart's desiring."

It is in the heart of home that Christmas finds its truest welcome. Where does the face of hospitality wear a grander, nobler look? Where do the voices of the children ring clearer than in that land of enchantment, where the little candles on the trees burn like so many dawning hopes which their youthful hearts have not yet experienced? Where is the smile of love more sweetly eloquent, more beautifully tender, than on the face of the devoted mother gazing at her babe in her arms? All her life she has taken Mary-the sweetest and purest of mothers-as her model. Ah! life has brought many a Christmas to her mother-heart, and again she joys in the pleasures of her children. The sound of their voices brings heaven very near. It is like the murmur of a brook breaking in laughter over the sunny ledges. Her soul, perhaps, has known many an hour of sorrow but the world knows not of them. God has been kind in giving her these priceless children, and at Christmas, when each little head is sweetly resting in its mass of curls and the little stockings are hanging round the fireplace, she whispers to herself the prayer that God may take them all back to Him some day with souls just as white and pure as when they came. Some day! Ah! how her mother-soul hopes that that "some day" may still be afar off, wrapped up in the golden future which she has fashioned for herself and her children! Perhaps even now, there in the silent city of the dead, marked by an humble white cross, is a grave that has caused her heart tragic suffering. Perhaps, too, on this happy Christmas day a beloved child,

far from home, is missing at the festive board-his absence the only discord in the otherwise perfect melody played upon the lyre of Love. Of "Christmas at Home," Michael Corbett sings tenderly:

"Tis gladly we meet in the cold Christmas

eve

When crackle the log-fires, with friends to receive;

And hearts bounding highly and brimful of bliss

Step under the mistletoe, happy to kiss.

"Our dearest of pleasures 'tis here we enjoy

No rivals assail us, no sorrows annoy; There's father and mother and brother and sis

All under the mistletoe, waiting their kiss. "Our loved from the prairies and over the

sea

Are fondly embracing each under the 'tree,' For nowhere are greetings more heartful than this

Just under the mistletoe, sealed with a kiss. "And one little creature, more precious than all,

We coax from the sofa that sets by the wall,
While others are talking of that and of this
Steal under the mistletoe, just for a kiss.
"Oh! the yule-tide log and the mistletoe

tree

The blithest reflections that time brings me, Wherever our stars cause our footsteps to roam,

Our sweetest of pleasures is Christmas at home."

"It is a beautiful arrangement derived. from days of yore," writes one, "that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for the gathering together of family connections and drawing closer again those bonds of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life and wandered widely asunder, once more to as

semble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again under the endearing mementos of childhood."

Charles J. O'Malley voices tender thoughts in his beautifully translated "Weinnachtslied," from the German of Franz von Heldmann:

"The lights upon the fir tree gleam,

Sweet laughter rings around the hearth; The Christmas bells, in golden stream, Pour gladness o'er the happy earth. At home I know the candles burn With radiance soft as close of day, But O, my lonely heart must mourn, For I, alas! am far away.

"I see the happy faces glow

With pleasure round the Christmas board;

I hear young voices murmur low
In gladness, while the ale is poured.

I see the aged grandsire kneel
And in his humble cottage pray;.
But I who knows the pangs I feel?—
Alone I wander far away.

"The wretched in their lowly cot

Their fir-bough have this holy night,
But, all unpitied in my lot,

My own beloved are far from sight.
O Christ Child, Who on straw was born,
Seest Thou how desolate I stray?
Thou hadst Thy loved ones; I, forlorn,
In silence weep far, far away."

Looking at the scene enacted centuries ago, one cannot but feel impressed with the sacredness of motherhood, with Mary—the most perfect woman on earth -the central figure, in her arms her cherished charge, the sleeping Royal Babe, the little King that was to govern all the Christian nations. Mothers of to-day! You who have suffered and who know the love and cares of little children, on this happy Christmas day turn your eyes to the stable at Bethlehem, and let your hearts swell with pride and satisfaction as you gaze into the eyes of Mary, your model, and whisper: "Oh, would that we could become perfect as thou, sweet Mother!" And you whose hearts are cold, and who turn

away from the love of innocent little babes, you who frustrate the God-given boon of motherhood, turn your eyes for a moment to that lonely stable in which the opening scene of Life's greatest drama is being enacted, so that in your souls may awaken nobler thoughts, nobler purposes and more lofty ideals!

There is an air of old-time loveliness about Christmas. We seem to take her hand as we would that of an old friend. She always wears the same generous smile, and her voice is ever tuned to the kindliest utterances. A grateful feeling prevails at the festive board when she is near-eyes sparkle with the old-time memories and hearts expand in the fullness of newly found love. Evergreens. glisten everywhere, with holly and mistletoe entwined, to welcome her coming. She is the greatest high priestess of the festivals of the year and she brings with her a regeneration of spirit at once corrective and hopeful. She is a stranger to no one. Whether you meet her on the rockbound fastnesses of Russia, on the sunny fields of Spain or on the wide deserts of Asia, she is always your friend. The pressure of her warm, motherly hand is just as sincere and the sound of her strong voice as tender. She enters the house of the pauper as willingly as the mansion of the king. In her heart of hearts she treasures her place of birththe lone stable at Bethlehem-above all else. And she calls it home-her home. In that very place she heard a Child stir in a strawy manger, saw His eyes give forth their first glad welcome to His Mother, and listened to the music of His tender baby voice-the living, eternal voice of the Child Jesus.

To none has the great feast of Christmas appealed more strongly than to the poets, those prophets and priests of nature, who sit daily in the House of Life probing its mysteries, sounding a note of warning, of courage and hope and love. to their fellow men. To them the Infant King has always been a source of great

and noble inspiration., In Him they divined love and hope and pity all in one. In Him was the divine essence of perfection and goodness. All the pleasures of this life and of the next were a direct expression to humanity of His great kindness of heart. All glory, all greatness, unless founded on the love of the King of Bethlehem, would never endure. All would pass away; that alone would remain which made for the upbuilding of Christ's kingdom upon earth. The poet has expressed this truth beautifully in his lines:

"Strange, we so toil to fashion for our unseen ends

The splendors that the tarnish of this world doth mar,

Such palaces that crumble to a ruined age, Such garbled memories upon Fame's fragile page,

When all the lasting glory of our life depends

Upon a little Child, a stable, and a star."

Let us, then, open some of the caskets of love which the poets have laid at the feet of the little Christ-King and take therefrom the beautiful jewels of expression which their hearts have inspired. Kingdoms and empires will be swept away but the tributes of the singers of songs will live so long as the world is full of the children of men. Their tuneful voices will keep on singing of the dawns and twilights of faith just so long as there are ears longing to hear the cheery messages that fill men's hearts with peace and consolation in these strenuous days, when the thirst for gold and power is such an alluring temptation.

And no lines seem to express more appropriately the condition of the anxious, struggling world than "The Eve of Christmas." It was among the last messages which Pope Leo, the great beloved, sent from his humble room in the Vatican to his faithful children the world over. The late Pontiff wrote many touching lines, but none seem to rise to the greatness of this poem. It

"Alone the thronging hosts of evil men I hear,

And see the anxious brow and falling tear. "The Age will bear no yoke; forgets the God above,

Nor duteous payment yields to parents' love. "Suspicion's Discord rends the peaceful State in twain,

And busy Murder follows in her train. "Gone are the loyal faith, the rights revered of old,

Reigns but a blind and cruel lust of Gold! "O come, Thou holy Child! Pity the fallen world,

Lest it should perish into darkness hurled. "Out of the laboring Night grant it a newer birth,

And a New Age to bloom o'er all the earth.

Charles J. O'Malley, than whom there is no sweeter or purer singer in the two continents, is probably one of the most. prolific. To him singing is as natural as gurgling is to a brook, and what a blessing that he has not frozen up over winter, otherwise we would never have enjoyed his enchanting winter sonnets and glorious gray dawns and his following delightful "Hymn at Christmas." Some one has compared him to a "brown sparrow singing at twilight among the elm boughs," and how sweet and exquisite have been his songs! He has sung to us