Classic Poem

'Tis Christmas eve, — full plain, —
A strange child runs about
Through street, and square, and lane,
To see the lights gleam out
From every window-pane.

Behold him stop and stare
At every house; he sees
The bright rooms, how they glare,
And all the lamp-full trees, —
Sad is he everywhere.

The poor child weeps: — " To-night
Each little girl and boy
Their little tree and light
Can see and can enjoy, —
All, — all but me, — poor wight!

" Brothers and sisters, we
Once frolicked, hand in hand,
Around one sparkling tree;
But here, in this strange land,
No one remembers me.

" Now all the doors they close
Against the cold and me;
In all these goodly rows
Of houses, can there be
No spot for my repose?

" Will no one ope to me?
Naught will I touch or take;
I 'll only look and see
The pretty Christmas cake, —
The sight my feast shall be. "

He knocks at gate and door,
On shutter and on pane;
Within they laugh the more;
The poor child knocks in vain,
His little joints grow sore.

Each father, full of joy,
His children eyes with pride;
The mother hands the toy,
She thinks of naught beside;
None heeds the stranger-boy.

" Dear holy Christ! save thee,
No father and no mother
Have I on earth; — O, be
My Saviour and my brother,
For none remembers me! "

Numbed with the biting blast,
He rubs his little hands,
Hugs himself tight and fast,
And in the by-lane stands,
His eyes to Heaven upcast.

Lo! with a little light,
Comes plodding up the street,
All dressed in spotless white,
Another child; — how sweet
His accents pierce the night!

" I am the holy child
Jesus, and once, like thee,
I roamed through cold and wild;
Poor wanderer, come to me,
For I am meek and mild!

" I will not scorn thy prayer;
The poor I love to bless,
And grant my tender care
Here in the street no less
Than in the parlour there.

" And now I'll let thee see,
Here in the open air,
Thou stranger-child, thy tree, —
And none so bright and fair
In all the rooms can be. "

Then pointed with his hand
Child Jesus to the sky; —
A mighty tree did stand,
Crowded with stars, so high,
Its boughs the wide heaven spanned.

How far, and yet how near,
The sparkling torches seem!
Poor child! it did appear
Like to a fairy dream,
All was so calm and clear.

There, — in the shining sky, —
There stood his Christmas-tree;
And little angels nigh
Reached down so lovingly,
And drew him up on high.

And homeward now he goes,
The little stranger-child,
With Jesus to repose, —
The Saviour meek and mild, —
And soon forgets his woes.