VI. The straining oar and chamois chase VII. He knew not that his chosen hand, A CHRISTMAS CAROL. I. HE Shepherds went their hasty way, And now they checked their eager For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, II. They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone, suspending night! While sweeter than a Mother's song, Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth, Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth. III. She listered to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she pressed; And while she cried, the Babe is mine! The milk rushed faster to her breast: Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn; IV. Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, O why should this thy soul elate? V. And is not War a youthful king, A stately hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; Him earth's majestic monarchs hail Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. VI. "Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, VII. "A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. VIII. "Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease: I'm poor and of a low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn: Peace, Peace on Earth, the Prince of Peace is born." HUMAN LIFE, ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. A FRAGMENT. |F dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and Whose sound and motion not alone declare, She formed with restless hands unconsciously. Blank accident! nothing's anomaly! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes thy fears, The counter-weights!-Thy laughter and thy tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create And to repay the other! Why rejoices Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf, That such a thing, as thou, feel'st warm or cold? AN ODE TO THE RAIN. COMPOSED BEFORE DAY-LIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR; WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN. I. KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, I have not once opened the lids of my eyes, But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. O Rain! that I lie listening to, You're but a doleful sound at best: O Rain! you will but take your flight, II. O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, For days, and months, and almost years, O Rain! you will but take your flight, I'll nothing speak of you but well. But only now for this one day, III. Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say |