Though only a carol singer With nothing of gold in store, And little to bring as an offering, I stand outside your door.
Open! This blessed morning Peace be to thee and thine!
Here to you all I gaily call A greeting from me and mine.
Haply it may awaken Some joy that so long ago, On the frosty dawn of a Christmas gone, You found in your stocking toe.
Though but an old, old carol, It bears love"s myrrh and gold, And the frankincense of a joy intense That the angel hosts foretold.
Carol.
_Listen! The heralds proclaim Him!
Follow! A star leads the way!
Oh, joy, in the City of David The Christ-child reigns to-day!_
I greet you this blessed morning.
Peace be to thee and thine!
To the dear ones here be Christmas cheer, And the love of me and mine.
"In This Cradle Life of Ours."
THE world swings slowly back and forth, From dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn, And we forget the hand that rocks, But, cradle-like, the world swings on.
A little while to stir and fret, Or sob with trembling lip Because the sunbeams we would grasp Through helpless fingers slip.
A little while to moan, and start From fevered dreams, and weep, For still the cradle sways and swings Until we fall asleep.
The broad earth"s pillow is so soft To weary heads, and who can tell But through that sleep sound lullabies Of the white angel, Israfel?
Here and There.
HOW must they sing, those angel choirs, Who breathe Heaven"s pure, sweet air!
They need but waft it from their lips To make it music rare.
Here on these chill, damp plains below, Where stifling vapors rise, We draw the heavy air of earth, And breathe it out in sighs.
The Milky Way.
UP the steep heights whereon G.o.d"s citadel Is set, the prayers of mortals to that bourne, For ages toiling, in the adamant, Across the sky a glittering path have worn.
INTERLUDE.
Interlude.
WITHIN the pauses of the anthem falls a hush, And the deep organ"s solemn voice goes on alone In a low undertone, As rain comes sometimes with a sudden sweeping rush, And then is still, save that it slowly drips and falls From leaves at intervals.
So memory sings alone Between the busy hours when comes a lull, And naught is audible But its low undertone.
So darkness drops between the days, an interlude When night"s low sighing stirs the sleepy solitude.
So, when the little cycle of this life is rounded, Before the spirit enters into life unbounded, It waits to hear, with bated breath, The solemn interlude of death.
PART III.
"Oh, Dreary Day!"
OH, dreary day, that had so late a dawn!
Oh, dreary day, so long, though early gone!
Fold thy gray mantle round thy form and go To find the lost sun, while Night comes on, Across the plain, with silent step and slow.
I weary of thy dark, unsmiling mood, I weary of thy dull disquietude, And thy complaining voice that tells of pain, Not with the tempest"s trumpet, but subdued In broken sentences of falling rain.
Now, soft as household spirit, comes the Night And draws the curtains, fanning still more bright The cheerful fire, while for her gentle sake The tapers burst in bloom with yellow light, Like evening primroses just kissed awake.
May-Time.
THE Spring steals through the city streets, Silent and shrinking, half afraid, As if there came, from woods and fields, Some timid, bashful, country maid.
The lofty houses coldly frown, And coldly stares the stony street; But here and there from out a cleft There springs a flower to kiss her feet.