Classic Poem

'T IS Christmas Eve, and by the fire-light dim,
His blue eyes hidden by his fallen hair,
My little brother—mirth is not for him—
Whispers, how poor we are!

Come, dear one, rest upon my knee your head,
And push away those curls of golden glow,
And I will tell a Christmas tale I read
A long, long time ago.

'Tis of a little orphan boy like you,
Who had on earth no friend his feet to guide
Into the path of virtue, straight and true,
And so he turned aside.

The parlor fires, with genial warmth aglow,
Threw over him their waves of mocking light,
Once as he idly wandered to and fro,
In the unfriendly night.

The while a thousand little girls and boys,
With look of pride, or half-averted eye,
Their hands and arms o'erbrimmed with Christmas toys
Passed and repassed him by.

Chilled into half forgetfulness of wrong,
And tempted by the splendors of the time,
And roughly jostled by the hurrying throng,
Trembling, he talked with crime.

And when the Tempter once had found the way,
And thought's still threshold, half-forbidden, crossed,
His steps went darkly downward day by day,
Till he at last was lost.

So lost, that once from a delirious dream,
As consciousness began his soul to stir,
Around him fell the morning's checkered beam—
He was a prisoner.

Then wailed he in the frenzy of wild pain,
Then wept he till his eyes with tears were dim,
But who would kindly answer back again
A prisoner-boy like him?

And so his cheek grew thin and paled away,
But not a loving hand was stretched to save;
And the snow covered the next Christmas-day
His lonesome little grave.

Nay, gentle brother, do not weep, I pray,
You have no sins like his to be forgiven,
And kneeling down together, we can say,
Father, who art in Heaven.

So shall the blessed presence of content
Brighten our home of toil and poverty,
And the dear consciousness of time well spent,
Our Christmas portion be.