The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. He feels from Judah's land The dreaded infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; Our babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest; Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemèd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. RING Out, wild bells, to the wild sky, Ring out the old, ring in the new — Ring, happy bells, across the snow; Ring out the grief that saps the mind Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring out the want, the care, the sin, Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be! ; THE CHRISTMAS CAROL. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen That overpowered their natural green. Through hill and valley every breeze And who but listened-till was paid How touching, when, at midnight, sweep The mutual nod,—the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; And some unbidden tears that rise For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid. Hail ancient Manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense And ye that guard them, Mountains old! THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. ALFRED TENNYSON. EXtract. THE time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid — the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound. Each voice four changes on the wind, Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn ! Draw forth the cheerful day from night; O Father! touch the east, and light The light that shone when hope was born! |