Newspaper Page Text
A Christmas Carol.
BY REV. A. 3. P.YAX.
„ got roe toßinp a Christmas song,
lh with musical mirth shall nng;
_ Jinov I that the world’s groat throng
H Whl care for the words I sing?
r the voting and the gay chant the Christmas lay,
For their voices and hearts are glad;
„ ltf ili am old. and my locks are grey,
U ADd they tell me my voice is sad.
.. , Mce i could sing, when my heart beat warm
' With hones, bright as Life’s bright Spring;
th( . spring hath tied, and the golden charm
3 Hath gone from the songs I sing.
i nave lost the spell that my verse could weave
O’er the souls of the old and young;
vnd never again-how it makes me grieve—
Shall I sing as once I sung.
whv ask a song? ah! perchance you believe,
Since my days are so nearly past,
'rve the sonar you’ll hear this Christmas Eve,
1 Is the old man’s best and last.
Do vou want the jingle of rythm and rhyme ?
‘Art's sweet but meaningless notes,
Or the music of Thought ? that, like the chime
Os a grand Cathedral, floats
Out of each word, and along each line,
' Into the spirit’s ear,
r ifting it up, and making it pme
For a something tar from Here:
Bca”in' 7 the wings of the soul alott
From earth and its shadows dim;
soothing the breast with a sound as soft
Asa dream or a Seraph’s hymn;
Evoking the solemncst hopes and fears
From our Being’s higher part,
Dimming the eyes with radiant tears
That flow from a spell-bound heart.
Do thev want a song that is only a song,
With no mystical meanings rife ?
0- a music that solemnly moves along—
The undertone of life ?
Well then, I'll sing; though I know not art,
kor the Poet’s rhymes nor rules—
A melody moves through my aged heart
Not learned from books or schools;
A music I learned in the days long gone—
I cannot tell where or how—
But no matter where, it still sounds on
Back of this wrinkled brow;
And down in my heart I hear it still,
Like the echoes of far-off bells;
Like the dreamy sound of a Summer rill
Flowing through fairy dells.
But what shall I sing for the world’s gay throng,
And what the words of the old man’s song ?
The world, they tell me, is so giddy grown,
That Thought is rare;
And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone
Hold empire there:
That fools have prestige, place, and power, and fame—
Can it be true ?
That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame,
And wise are few ?
They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain,
With high and low ;
That Truth aud Honor are the slaves of Gain;
Can it be so ? ♦
That lofty Principle hath long been dead
And in a shroud;
That Virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head,
Amid the crowd.
They tell me, too, that few are they who own
God’s Law and Love; wwws?
That thousands, living for this Earth alone,
Look not above;
That daily, hourly, from bad to worse,
Men tread the path,
Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse
Os his dread wrath.
And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain,
Or to the Few ?
Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain
Who still are true ?
No—not for the False shall I strike the strings
Os the lyre that was mute so long;
If I sing at all—the gray bard sings
For the Few and the True his song.
And ah! there is many a changeful mood
That over my spirit steals;
Beneath their spell, and in verses rude,
Whatever he dreams or feels;
Whatever the fancies this Christmas Eve
Are haunting the lonely man;
Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve. V
He'll sing them as best he can,
Though some of the strings of liis lyre are broke
This holiest night of the year,
Who knows how its melody may wake
A Christmas smile and tear.
No on with the mystic song.
With its meanings manifold—
Two tones in every word,
Two thoughts in every tone;
In the measured words that move along
One meaning shall be heard,
One thought to all be told—
But, under it all, to me alone—
And, under it all, to all unknown—
As safe as under a coffin-lid,
Beep meanings shall be bid—
rind them out who can!
The thou glits concealed and uiirevealed
In the song of the lonely man
; ni sitting alone in Any silent room
... Tins long December night,
atching the fire-flame fill the gloom
With many a picture bright.
Ah! how the fire can paint!
His magic skill how strange!
How every spark
On the canvas dark
Draws figures and forms so quaint!
-And how the pictures change !
One moment how they smile!
Aud in less than a little while,
Iu the twinkling of an eye,
Like the gleam of a Summer sky,
ry The beaming smiles all die.
T ; ou : guy to grave—from grave to gay,
. ?lae< -s change iu the shadows grev.
' R . just as I wonder who are thev.
Over them all,
Bike a funeral pail,
1 |’°Ws of the shadows drop and fall,
•Aiu. the charm is gone,
And every one
' pictures lades away.
A- the fire within my grate
1 ' : p u more than Raphael’s power,
Is more than Raphael’s peer—
. , w '- than he in a year;
J~ e Pictures hanging ’round me here
v n ..I 118 Christmas Eve,
v vest’s pencil could create,
J j, lu * <:r ' B ar t conceive.
Ah . those cheerful faces
« caring youthful graces;
ou them until I seem
a and half in a dream.
-jero are brows without a mark,
features without a shade:
There are eyes without a tear;
There are lips unused to sigh.
Ah! never mind—you soou shall die 1
All those faces soon shall fade,
Fade into the dreary dark,
Like their pictures hauging here.
Lo I those tearful faces,
Bearing Age’s traces!
I gaze on them, and they on me,
Until I feel a sorrow steal
Through my heart so drearily;
There are faces furrowed deep;
There are eyes that used to weep;
There are brows beneath a cloud;
There are hearts that want to sleep.
Never mind! the shadows creep
From the Death-laud; and a shroud,
Tenderly as mother’s arm,
Soon shall shield the old from harm;
Soon shall wrap its robe of Rest
Round each sorrow-haunted breast.
Ah ! that face of Mother’s.
Sister’s, too, and Brother's—
And so many others,
Dear in every name—
And, wherever they are to-night, I know
They look the very same
As in their picture hanging here
This night, to Memory dear,
And painted by the flames,
With tombstones in the back-ground,
And shadow for their flames.
And thus, with my pictures only,
And the fancies they unweave
Alone, and yet not lonelv,
I keep my Christmas Eve.
I’m sitting alone in my pictured room— h|
But, no ! they have vanished all— m
I m watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, *
I’m watching the ashes fall. ,
And far away back of the cheerful blaze
The beautiful visions of by-gone days
Are rising before my raptured gaze.
All! Christmas fire, so bright and warm.
Hast thou a wizard’s magic charm
To bring those far-off scenes so near
And make my past days meet me here ?
Tell me—tell me—how is it ?
The past is past, aud here I sit,
And there, lo ! there before me rise,
Beyond yon glowing flame,
The Bummer suns of childhood’s skies,
les—yes— the very game!
I saw them rise long, long ago;
i played beneath their golden glow:
And I remember yet,
I often cried with strange regret,
A\ hen in the West I saw them set.
And there they are again ;
The suns, the skies, the very days
Os childhood, just beyond that blaze!
But, ah! such visions almost craze
The old man’s puzzled brain!
I thought the Past was past!
But, no, it cannot be;
’Tis here to-night with me!
How is it, then ? the Past of Men
Is part of one Eternity—
The days of yore we so deplore,
They are not dead—they are not fled,
They live, and live forevermore.
And thus my Past comes back to me
With all its visions fair.
Oh, Past! could Igo back to thee,
And live forever there !
But, no ! there’s frost upon my hair;
My feet have trod a path of Care;
And worn and wearied here I sit,
I am too tired to go to it.
And thus with visions only,
And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas Eve.
I’m sitting alone in my fire-lit room;
But, no! the fire is dying.
And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom,
Are sad, and I hear them sighing.
The winds have a voice to pine—
Plaintive, and pensive, and low—
Hath it a heart, like mine or thine ?
Kuoweth it weal or woe ?
How it wails, in a ghost-like strain,
Just against that window-pane !
As if it were tired of its long, cold flight,
Aud wanted to rest with me to-night:
Cease, night-winds, cease;
Why should you be sad ?
This is a night of joy and peace,
And Heaven and Earth are glad!
But still the wind’s voice grieves!
Perchance o’er the fallen leaves,
Which, in their Summer bloom,
Danced to the music of bird and breeze,
But, torn from the arms of their parent trees.
I ie now in their wintry tomb,
Mute types of man’s own doom.
And thus with the night winds only,
And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas Eve.
How long have I been dreaming here ?
Or have I dreamed at all ?
My fire is dead—my pictures fled—
There’s nothing left but shadows drear.
Shadows on the wall:
Shifting, flitting,
Round me, sitting
In my old arm chair—
Rising—sinking
Round me, thinking.
Till, in the maze of many a dream,
I’m not myself; and I almost seem
Like one of the shadows there.
Well, let the shadows stay!
I wonder who are they ?
I cannot say; but I almost Believe
They know to-night is Christmas Eve.
And to-morrow is Christmas Day.
Ah! there’s nothing like a Christmas Eve!
To change Life’s bitter gall to sweet,
And change the sweet to gall again;
To take the thorns from out our feet—
The thorns aud all their dreary pain,
Only to put them back again.
To take old stings from out our heart,
Old stings that made Mi cm bleed and smart,
Only to sharpen them the more,
And press them back to the heart’s own core.
Ah! no eve is like the Christina's Eve!
Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears,
Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears,
Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers,
Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet,
Bright and dark, and dark and bright,
rill these mingle, all these meet,
In this great aud solemn night.
Ah! there’s nothing like a Christmas Eve !
To meet with a kindly glowing heart,
From oil' our souls the snow aud sleet,
The dreary drift of wintry years,
Only to make the cold winds blow,
Only to make a colder snow;
And make it drift, and drift and drift,
In flakes so icy cold and swift;
Until the heart that lies below
Is cold, and colder than the snow.
And thus with the shadows only,
And the dreamings they unweave;
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas Eve.
’Tis passing fast!
My fireless, lampless room
Is a mass of moveless gloom:
And without—a darkness vast,
Solemn—starless—still!
Heaven and Earth doth fill.
But list! there soundeth a bell,
With a mysterious ding, dong, dell!
Is it, say, is it a funeral knell ?
Solemn and slow,
Now loud—now low;
Pealing the notes of human woe
Over the graves lying under the snow!
Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell!
Trembling along the gale,
T nder the stars and over the snow.
Why is it? whence is it sounding so?
■MIIII ©I mm jOrnnE
Is it the toll of a bridal bell?
Or is it a spirit's wail ?
Solemnly—mournfully
Sad —and how lomfuliy!
Ding, dong, dell!
Whence is it ? who can tell ?
And the marvellous notes, they sink and swell
Sadder, and sadder, and Radder still!
How the sounds tremble! how they thrill!
Every tone
So like a moan;
As if the strange bell's stranger clang
Throbbed with a terrible human pang.
Ding, dong, dell!
• Dismally—drearily—
Ever so wearily.
Far off and faint as a Requiem plaint,
Floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell.
Piercingly—tlirillingly,
Icily—chillingly
Near—and more near,
Drear, aud more drear,
Soundeth the wild, weird ding, dong, dell.
Now sinking lower,
It toileth slower !
I list, and I hear it sound no more,
And now, methinks, I know that bell;
Know it well—know its knell—
For I often heard it sound before.
It is a bell—yet not a bell
Whose sound may reach the ear!
It tolls a knell—yet not a knell
Which earthly sense may.hear.
In every soul a bell of dole
Ilangs ready, to be tolled;
And from that bell a funeral knell
Is often, often rolled;
And Memory is the Sexton grey
Who tolls the dreary knell;
And nights like this he loves to sway
And swing his mystic bell.
’Twas that I heard and nothing more,
This lonely Christmas Eve;
Then, for the dead I'll meet no more
At Christmas, let me grieve,
Night, be a Priest! put your dark stole on
And murmur a holy prayer
Over each grave, and for every one
Lying down lifeless there f
And over the dead stands the high-priest Night,
Robed in his shadowy stole;
And beside him 1 kneel, as Iris Acolyte,
To respond to his prayer of dole.
And list! he begins
That psalm for sins,
The first of the mournful seven,
Plaintive and soft
It rides aloft,
Begging the mercy of Heaven
To pity and forgive
For the sake of those who live,
The dead who have died unshriven.
Miserere! Miserere!
Still your heart and hush your breath !
The voices of Despair and Death
Are shuddering through the psalm !
Miserere! Miserere!
Lift your hearts! the Terror dies!
Up in yonder sinless skies
The psalms sound sweet and calm !
Miserere! Miserere!
Very low, in tender tones,
The"music pleads, the music moans:
“I forgive, and have forgiven,
The dead, who died unshriven !”
De profnndis! De profuudis!
Psalm of the dead and disconsolate!
Thou hast sounded through a thousand years,
And pealed above ten thousand biers;
And still, sad Psalm, you mourn the fate
Os sinners and just,
When their souls are going up to God,
Their bodies down to dust.
Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tears
From mortal eyes that fall,
And your notes wake the darkest fears
That human hearts appal!
You sound o'er the good, you sound o’er the bad.
And ever your music is sad, is sad.
We seem to hear murmured, in every tone,
For the saintly, a blessing; lor sinners, a curse.
Psalm, sad Psalm! you must pray and grieve
Over our Dead on this Christmas Eve.
De profuudis ! De profnndis!
And the Night chants the Psalm o’er the mortal clay,
And the spirits immortal from far away,
To the music of Hope sings this sweet-toned lay:
You think of the Dead on Christmas Eve,
Wherever the Dead are sleeping;
And we, from a Land where we may not grieve,
Look tenderly down on you, weepiug.
You think us far; we are verv near,
From you and the Earth though parted.
We sing to-niglit to console and cheer
The hearts of the broken-hearted.
The Earth watches over the lifeless clay
Os each of its countless sleepers;
rind the sleepless Spirits that passed away
Watch over all Earth’s weepers.
We shall meet again in a brighter Land,
Where farewell is never spoken;
We shall clasp each other hand in..hand,
rind the clasp shall not be broken,
We shall meet again in a bright, calm clime,
Where we’ll never know a sadness;
rind our lives shall he filled, like a Christmas chime,
With rapture and with gladness,
The snows shall pass from our graves away,
rind yon from the Earth, remember;
rind the flowers of a bright, eternal May,
Shall follow Earth’s December.
When you think of us, think not of the tomb
Where you laid us down in sorrow;
But look aloft, and beyond Earth’s gloom,
rind wait for the great To-morrow.
rind the Pontiff, Night, with his dark stole on,
Whisperetli soft and low:
Requiescat! Requiescat!
Peace! Peace ! to every one
For whom we grieve this Christmas Eve,
In their graves beneath the snow.
The stars in the far-ofl' Heaven
Have long since struck eleven !
rind hark! from Temple and from Tower,
Soundeth Time’s grandest midnight hour,
Blessed by the Saviour’s birth,
rind Niglit putteth off its sable stole,
Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole,
For one with many a starry gem,
To honor the Babe of Bethlehem,
Who comes to Men, the King of them,
Yet comes without robe or diadem,
rind all turn toward the holy East,
To hear the Song of the Christmas Feast.
Four thousand years Earth waited,
Four thousand years men prayed,
Four thousand years the Nations sighed
That their King so long delayed.
The Prophets told His coming,
The saintly for Him sighed;
-Ind the Star of the Babe of Bethlehem
Shone o’er them when they died.
Their faces toward the Future—
They longed to hail Die Light
That, in after centuries,
Would rise on Christmas night.
But still the Sayiour tarried,
In His Father’s home;
rind the Nations wept and wondered why
The Promised had not come.
ritlast, Earth’s hope was granted,
rind God was a Child of Earth;
rind a thousand ringels chanted
The lowly midnight birth.
rib ! Bethlehem was grander
That hour than Paradise;
And the light of Earth that night eclipsed
The splendors of the skies.
Then let. us sing the riuthem
The A ngels once did sing;
United with the music of love and praise,
The whole wide world will ring.
Gloria in excelsis!
Sound the thrilling song;
In excelsis Deo?
Roll the Hymn along.
Gloria in excelsis!
Let the Heavens ring;
In excelsis Deo!
Welcome, new-born King.
Gloria in excelsis!
Over the sea and land*
In excelsis Deo! *
Chant the rinthem grand.
Gloria in excelsis!
Let us all rejoice;
Deo 1
"Lift each heart and voice.
Gloria in excelsis!
Swell the Hymn on high;
In excelsis Deo!
Sound it to the sky.
Gloria in excelsis !
Sing it, sinful Earth!
In excelsis Deo!
For the Saviour’s birth.
Thus joyful and victoriously,
Glad and ever so gloriously;
High as the Heavenß—wide as the Earth—
Swelleth the Hymn of the Saviour’s birth.
Lo! the Day is waking
In the East afar;
Dawn is faintly breaking—
Sunk is every star.
Christmas Eve has vanished
With its shadows grey:
rill its griefs are banished
By bright Christmas Day.
Joyful chimes are ringing
O’er the land and seas,
rind there comes glad singing
Borne on every breeze. °
little ones so merry
Bed-clothes coyly lift,
rind, in such a hurry.
Prattle f‘Christmas gift!”
Little heads so curly,
Knowing Christmas laws,
Peep out very earlv
For old “Santa Claus.”
Little eyes are laughing
O’er their Christmas toys;
Older ones are quaffing
Cups of Christmas joys.
Hearts are joyous, cheerful,
Faces all are gay;
None are sad and tearful
On bright Christmas. Day.
, Hearts are light and bounding,
All from care are free;
Homes are all resounding
With a happy glee.
Feet with feet are meeting,
Bent on Pleasure’s way;
Souls to souls give greeting
Warm on Christmas Day.
Gifts are lsepi a-going
Fast frofii hand to hand;
Blessings are a flowing
Over every land.
One vast wave of gladness
Sweeps its world-wide way,
Drowning every sadness
On this Christmas Day.
Merry, merry Christmas,
Haste around the Earth;
Merry, merry Christmas,
Scatter smiles and mirth.
Merry, merry Christmas,
Be to one and all;
Merry, merry Christmas,
Enter hut and hall.
Merry, merry Christmas,
Be to rich and poor!
Merry, merry Christmas,
Stop at every door.
Merry, merry Christmas,
Fill each heart with joy;
Merry, merry Christmas,
To each girl and boy.
Merry, merry Christmas,
Better gifts than gold;
Merry, merry Christmas,
To the young and old.
Merry, merry Christmas!
May the coming year
Bring as merry a Christmas
A nd as bright a cheer !
[For the Banner of the South.]
THE CHAINLESS SPIRIT.
The Centuries are remorseless icono
clasts. Annihilation is their pastime,
and destruction their favorite revelry.-
Fragile realities are magnificently swept
into nothingness, and if, while engaged
in the congenial work of “treading out
Empires,” they do not also “quench the
stars,” it is only because they cannot pass
the bounds set to their progress; but these
Gothic children of Time, proud as they
are of their Titanic strength, occasional
ly meet with an ignominious repulse.
After apparently demolishing some of
the more obnoxious idol a of the age, they
find that they have only killed the out
ward form. Enshrined within is a living
principle, and what seemed mere fungi,
proved to he adamantine realities. One
bright, and beautiful image they have
utterly failed to destroy. Liberty ideal
ized, defies the rude assaults of the Cen
turies. A mere abstraction, it triumphs
over the concrete; a Spirit Immortal and
Eternal, it conquers and outlives such
puny antagonists as ages, cycles, eons,
and millenniums. It has survived the
fall of a thousand thrones. With un
shaken majesty it has viewed the rise cf
Empires, the death of Nations the
“wreck of matter and crush of worlds.”
The recognized Queen of the Peoples, it
points them to regeneration, glory, and
renown. Enthroned in the very citadel
of the soul, it holds undisputed sway over
the regal realms of mina, and heart. A
positive element of life, it is active alike
in the most benighted barbarism, and in
the highest civilization. Its history, ah!
who cun write it'/ % Imagination alone, is
equal to the task, and the picture it pre
sents to the mind’s eye is as evanescent
as it is beautiful. It falls on the palimps
est of the brain as lightly as down upon
the waters, and the impression is too sub
tile to be tampered with by rude stylus
or ruder tongues. Imagination dimly
shadows forth the restless waves of mu
tation as they rise and fall beneath the
chaotic thought-germs, without form,
though not void. We see the scattered
elements coalesce, and crystalize into a
thing of beauty,” instinct with life and
motion. Glittering in the rays of lu
minous splendor as showed upon it from the
ladiant centre of Light, it flashes back
the gorgeous gleam of an imperial
oug it, and sTiines with a lustre that
c azz es the imagination, and leads cap
tive the senses. The airs of Heaven
breathe upon the union, and among the
finer issues,” rises a fairy-like Spirit,
radiant as the “ sudden Iris ofthe skies ”
and brighter than the brightest of the
ethereal forms that sometimes stand on
the shadowy border-land of dreams, and
delight our mortal vision. Like Pal
las, it springs into existence complete
and full-drapericd, sceptred and diadem
ed, its brow gleaming with gems, and
radiant with the beauty of buried Cen
turies. Its progress is onward and
upward. Through the serried genera
tions drawn out in dim perspective, it
marches, alternately lavishing its favors
on Roman or Greek, Gentile or Jew.
Amid all # the revolutions of Time, and
the moral and physical changes that
sweep over the world, it continues to hold
the highest place in the affections of hu
manity Every spoken language clasps
it into loving embrace, and adorns it with
all the flowers of poesy, and the graces of
speech. It graces Life, and illumines
Death. Radiant Spirit! Its praises are
chanted amid Alpine rocks, Arabian
sands, and Polar snows. Animated Na
ture, at ith its thousaud voices, joins iu
the Lydian symphony as it rises in lowest
and sweetest of strains, and the “sightless
couriers of the air” pause to drink in
the latest tone as it “ taints in murmurs
on the listening day.’ Again it rises in
a loud, triumphant peal, and as the
grand anthem rolls its sonorous diapason
through the vaulted arches of “ Gods
First Temples,” it startles into life the
responsive echoes slumbering along the
confines of the material universe ! Rut
the mind wearies in attempting to follow
this meteor of the Ideal world. No Poet’s
pen has ever rivited airy shape to a local
habitation; no Painter has ever clothed it
with form and color; no Sculptor has
ever fashioned cold, and lifeless marble
into its glorious similitude. The genius of
Homer, of Apelles, and of Phidias, was
powerless to give us even a counterfeit
presentment of this sun-bright Spirit of
the Ideal! Coriola.
New York, Aug, 7th, 1808.
Mr. Editor : Several of your corres
pondents, very old and respectable, no
doubt, seem to be wonderfully exercised
as to the origin of our Plantation Bit
ters. So long as these Bitters are all
that we represent them to be, we do not
know that it makes any difference from
whom they come, or from whence they
originated; but, for the information of
the public generally, and old Capt. Wentz
in particular, we will say that he told the
truth, and that these Bitters originated
in the West India Islands; that many of
the ingredients have been used for •over a
century; but that our combination of
Calisaya is entirely new, and our own.
The rum and other materials are the
same, and, as your correspondent says, a
better Bitters and Tonic is not made.
We recommend them particularly for
dyspeptics, fever and ague, debility, loss
of appetite, and in all cases where a tonic
and stimulant is required.
P. H. Drake A Cos.,
21 Park Row, N.Y.
Magnolia Water. —Superior to the
best imported German Cologne, and sold
at half the price
Quinine. — Quinine is produced from
a forest tree in South America, known
as the chinchona, of which then- are
many varieties, lsut the chinchona can
soya, and chinchona rubra, yield the
medicine in greatest abundance. So
great has been the demand that, in most
of the districts whence it has been ob
tained, the supplies are gradually dimin
ishing: and, as no substitute of equal
value is likely i ■ he found, it is of the
utmost importance that new sources shall
be discovered. In Jamaica, the chincho
na rubra has been cultivated sufficiently
to show that it will grow well on that
Island, and the Government is urged to
encourage and assist in its cultivation on
an extended scale. It seems, however,
that only upon mountains from 1,500 to
2,000 feet high, where the forests are
often bedewed with mist, does this tree
arrive to a perfection that will make its
cultivation profitable; but there are
several sections on the Island which will
answer the requirements. Besides,
there are other Islands in this quarter of
the world where similar conditions ore
vail, and if due efforts are made, the
world’s supply of quinine may continue
unexhausted.
3