CHRISTMAS.

On the Swiss mountains, when I wandered there, In the wild, awful passes, all alone,

A little cross of iron, cold and bare,

Rose, oft, before me, from some wayside stone. Strange, uncouth names they bore—a holy sign Traced by rude hands upon a rustic scroll, And, blotted by the snows, a piteous line, Begging our prayers for the poor sleeper's soul.

Some traveller it was, perchance, whose doom
The torrent or the avalanche had sped;
Mayhap was buried there some peasant, whom
The hunted chamois o'er the cliff had led.
His simple thoughts had never crossed the sea,
From whose far borders to his grave I came,
Yet, as a brother, called he unto me,

And my heart's echo gave him back the name!

Peace to thy spirit, Brother! I had felt

The quick'ning of the blood that wanderers feel, At thought of home and country. I had knelt At altars where the nations came to kneel

But knew I never, in its depth, till when

Thy lonely shrine besought me for my prayer, The sense of kindred with all sons of men

One love, one hope, God's pity everywhere!

And so thy scroll, thou gentle Christmas-tide,

Reared on the cross, high o'er the wastes of time, Speaks to earth's pilgrims, in His name who died, Good will and peace and brotherhood sublime! And, unto them that hail thee, chiefly worth

Are the glad wreaths thou twinest round the year, For that thou bidd'st our kindled hearts go forth, Wherever love can warm or kindness cheer.

Up the bleak heights of daily toil we press,
Too busy, with our journey and our load,
To heed the hurried grasp, the brief caress,
The brother fainting on that weary road.
Then, welcome be the hours and thoughts and things,
That win us from ourselves, a little while,
To that sweet human fellowship, which brings
The only human joy unstained of guile!

CHRISTMAS-1851.

As, o'er Judea's lonely world,
The Magi bore their gifts of gold
To Bethlehem, from afar,
Above the midnight path, there shone
Slow-guiding to the manger, on,

A dim receding star!

There came, that night, no starry ray
To where the watching shepherds lay,
But unto them was given,

With brow of light, and accents mild,
To tell them of the new-born child,
A messenger from Heaven!

'Twas strange that tidings, uttered then, Alike for all the sons of men,

Should take such varying guise: Here-music on an angel's tongueAnd there the midnight clouds among, Star-written on the skies!

Without the star-taught wizard's lore,
Without the gold and gems he bore,
'Tis mine, alas! to see

Few, pale, and sad the distant rays,
The only guides to better days,

Sent down from Heaven to me!

Too far and cold to lead or bless,
Too few to light the wilderness

O'er which my path has lain-
They fade, like lamps that, waning, keep
The watches of a sick man's sleep,

Who only wakes to pain!

And, if an angel's form hath cast
A glory round me, as it passed,

And, ere it soared away,

I've sprung to catch its raiment bright,
I have but clutched the pall of night-
The Seraph would not stay!

Would God! Would God! that I could fail To read, in Bethlehem's holy tale,

The sorrow that it brings—

I would not make my star so dim,
And joyfully would catch the hymn
That any angel sings!

CHRISTMAS EVE AT SEA.

'Tis not thy wont, sweet festive Eve,
To come, with sunshine on thy brow;

For frozen hands thy raiment weave,

And bind thy greenest wreaths with snow.

Yet never, in thy chillest guise,

So cheerless hast thou been to me,

As now, that I behold thee rise,
Here, on the wild and lonely sea.

Yet, though more dark the frowning sky
Should hang upon the solemn deep-
Though wildest were the revelry

The rushing blasts of winter keep

All heedless still, of wave and storm,

The pilgrim's heart would beat full high, If, of the host he loves, one form,

One heart, one hand, one smile, were nigh.

Bring him the hearth around whose blaze

His household gods give back the light; Breathe in his ear the mirth that plays In happy echoes, there, to-night.

Show him the haunts where two or three
The festive midnight meet to bless;
The quiet chambers, where there be
Dreams of the wanderer's caress;

And into stars, the night that's o'er
His lonely watchings, shall be turned,
And thy sweet incense, as of yore,

E'en on the billows shall be burned.

Alas! though summoned by thine art,
Around me, for brief moments, come
Visions so life-like that I start,

And wonder if it be not home.

'Tis vain! all vain! for round me roll
The self-same solemn waters, still,

The same sad skies brood o'er my soul,
The same wild breezes mock my will!