English

Chant me a rhyme of Christmas—
Sing me a jovial song,—
And though it is filled with laughter,
Let it be pure and strong.

Let it be clear and ringing,
And though it mirthful be,
Let a low, sweet voice of pathos
Run through the melody.

Sing of the hearts brimmed over
With the story of the day—
Of the echo of childish voices
That will not die away.—

Of the blare of the tasseled bugle,
And the timeless clatter and beat
Of the drum that throbs to muster
Squadrons of scampering feet.

When over the fair fame of friend or foe
The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead
Of words of blame, or proof of thus and so,
Let something good be said.

Forget not that no fellow-being yet
May fall so low but love may lift his head:
Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet,
If something good be said.

No generous heart may vainly turn aside
In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead
But may awaken strong and glorified,
If something good be said.

And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown,

I FIND an old deserted nest,
Half-hidden in the underbrush:
A withered leaf, in phantom jest,
Has nestled in it like a thrush
With weary, palpitating breast.

I muse as one in sad surprise
Who seeks his childhood's home once more,
And finds it in a strange disguise
Of vacant rooms and naked floor,
With sudden tear-drops in his eyes.

An empty nest! It used to bear
A happy burden, when the breeze
Of summer rocked it, and a pair
Of merry tattlers told the trees
What treasures they had hidden there.

At least to pray is left, is left.
O Jesus! in the air
I know not which thy chamber is,—
I'm knocking everywhere.

Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,
And maelstrom in the sea;
Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
Hast thou no arm for me?

Now the vapor, hot and damp,
Shed by day's expiring lamp,
Through the misty ether spreads
Every ill the white man dreads;
Fiery fever's thirsty thrill,
Fitful ague's shivering chill!

Hark! I hear the traveller's song,
As he winds the woods along;—
Christian, 't is the song of fear;
Wolves are round thee, night is near,
And the wild thou dar'st to roam—
Think, 't was once the Indian's home!

Hither, sprites, who love to harm,
Wheresoe'er you work your charm,
By the creeks, or by the brakes,

You say I love not, 'cause I doe not play
Still with your curles, and kisse the time away.
You blame me too, because I cann't devise
Some sport, to please those Babies in your eyes:
By Loves Religion, I must here confesse it,
The most I love, when I the least expresse it.
Small griefs find tongues: Full Casques are ever found
To give (if any, yet) but little sound,
Deep waters noyse-lesse are; And this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when Love speechlesse is, she doth expresse

Holy-rood come forth and shield
Us i'th'Citie, and the Field:
Safely guard us, now and aye,
From the blast that burns by day;
And those sounds that us affright
In the dead of dampish night.
Drive all hurtfull Feinds us fro,
By the Time the Cocks first crow.

I am all the time being pursued.
Like the star in a horror movie
I am pursued to the bitter end.
After living under a faint star of misfortune
unaware of the way things are,
one day the hackneyed plot says
that I suddenly start to be pursued
in the old projector, today again,
that never wearies but just keeps turning . . .

Now it's raining on the screen
and there I am from behind, getting drenched,
ceaselessly pursued . . .
What crime did I commit?
On the silent screen
faint foreign words flash like a code;

Please open it and look again.
Ever between these pages
crawl only the ghosts of those who starved to death.
In every village darkened by the hand-grease of daily use
the habits that still live
clean the blackened chimneys of the lamps.
The children drowned in the ocean of their dreaming,
in a yellowed clapping of their hands.
Their ghosts rise and clamor
Give me tasty candies
Give me thrilling candlelight,
then they form a wave that at once collapses.
Several medals left by someone long ago rust away.

Saddened by the sun
and blue of the sky

the leper ate a child
at moonrise by the barley fields

and through the night cried out
his sorrow red as a flower.