Classic Poem

A little babe came to its mother's arms,
And, stretching out dainty and dimpled palms,
Bestowed upon her woman's proudest honor, —
The halo of sweet motherhood's Madonna.
For each new baby born is God's own child,
As much as he on Mary's lap who smiled.

What was it he in tiny hands did bring,
To prove that he from God's own skies did spring?
He brought down to his mother's heart again
That hope that never yet was far from men, —
The Christmas hope, that through the ages long
Leads on the nations with its luring song.
She crooned above his cradle; and alway
She dreamed, as mothers do dream every day.
In dream, she saw him grow to man's estate,
Her heart with all a mother's pride elate.
He shone, a day-star, in his noble youth
To light mankind along the path of truth.
He was a leader; and, with life athrill,
His followers he inspired with resolute will;
Infected all with voice and kindling eye
With his high purpose both to live and die.
He was both light and life; and then above
Both light and life there gleamed a wondrous love,
That in the worthless outcast still could see
What was not yet, — the man that was to be.

Thus dreamed the mother while her baby slept;
And, just for very joy, some tears she wept
Her son, God's son, should a Messiah be,
And help to set the groaning nations free!
So every mother dreams above her boy,
Her good-will glowing in her mother's joy.

But dreams will fade. I saw this mother soon
No longer o'er the swaying cradle croon;
But, with heart-break and raining eyes, she bowed
Above an empty crib and sobbed aloud.
The light, the life, the love, had faded quite,
Like the aurora of a winter's night.
Or, harder yet than death, to man's estate
He came at last, but neither good nor great.
Or yet again, what happens every day,
The mother's dream divine did fade away.
Her boy, grown man, lived out his common days,
And helped, a little, human life to raise.
The world was better that he lived and died,
Though he fulfilled not what was prophesied.

But hopes like these, what if they often are
Like the blank heaven, from which has fallen a star?
Still are they not the stars that lead the way
On toward the sunrise of the better day?
These hopes and dreams of nobler things to be,
Though for long centuries we do not see
The dream turned into fact, they lure us still
Toward the kingdom of divine Good-will.
And each illusion lost but goads us on:
Some glad day yet the kingdom shall be won!

In old crusading days, a childhood band
Rushed blindly on to seek the Sacred Land,
And wrest from grasp of pagan infidel
The tomb of Christ. 'Tis said that it befell,
Whenever some new town arose in sight,
They cried out, eager in their glad delight, —
Trusting no more of toil remained for them, —
" Now are we there? Is this Jerusalem? "
But, like a fire besieged by wind and rain,
Though almost quenched, their courage flamed again.
Still on they marched; and every distant spire
Kindled fresh hope, and fed their strong desire.
And, though the city yet was far away,
Each new town lured them onward day by day.

This is the Christmas hope. A son is born,
Who, like a star upon the front of morn,
Is herald of the day that is divine, —
The day that with the Perfect Light shall shine.
But still Messiah dies, and hope delays;
Still mankind stumbles over darksome ways.
Disease and sorrow and despair abide,
As though no Son of God had lived or died.
The way is weary; and the city bright
We seek so long is still beyond our sight.
Once more, the Christmas bells ring on the air,
And with their music drive away despair.
The hope-crowned Christ-child ever comes anew;
One day, the mother's dream shall all come true.
New heavens, new earth! Although they long delay,
'Tis God who lures us on, and leads the way.
And each illusion, like a veil withdrawn,
Fades like a cloud but to reveal the dawn.
A morn shall surely come when Christmas bells shall ring,
Proclaiming evil dead, and man the glad earth's king.