Two Christmas Guests
'Tis Christmas eve. All silent lies the prairie brown and sere,
And amid the voiceless shadows the midnight hours draw near.
As I sit here musing, dreaming, and turning memory's leaves.
There pass in long procession, so many Christmas eves!
And one, of all the many, to-night stands out alone
In its joy and its tender sorrow, with a pathos all its own.
There were feasting and rejoicing, and the village streets were gay,
But the lights burned low and dimly in the house across the way.
Full well I knew the inmates — the household numbered three —
A husband, a dear old father, and a young wife fair to see.
Kindly they dwelt together, 'twas said none ever heard
In that house a tone of anger, nor any unkind word.
But Life and Death together that night had crossed the sill;
The good old man lay dying, and the fair young wife was ill.
Without the merry sleighbells rang up and down the street,
Within, were low-hushed voices, and the tread of noiseless feet.
A sound arose at midnight — the first cry of a child.
The dying grandsire heard it, looked up, and faintly smiled.
A son is born? I thank thee, O Father, for thy grace.
I go, but this one cometh, and he shall take my place.
I pray you bring him hither — go, bring the boy to me,
I fain would once behold him, while yet these eyes can see.
The babe was brought, and smiling, the old man softly said,
As he laid his pallid fingers on the tiny baby head:
I have no wealth to leave him, in houses or in lands, —
For e'en as I came hither, I go with empty hands:
But tell him for his grandsire — tell him as child and youth —
To be loyal, kind and loving, and always speak the truth .
But little more was spoken, a solemn silence fell,
Save but the sound of weeping, and the whisper, " All is well. "
When Christmas morn rose brightly from out the shadows gray,
A strip of crape was floating from the door across the way.
Amid the still night watches, thus calmly, peacefully,
Had the good old man departed — yet the household numbered three.
Though Life and Death come surely into the homes of men,
They come not oft together, and so peacefully as then.
And that is why, in my musings, that night stands out alone,
In its joy and its tender sorrow, with a pathos all its own.
And amid the voiceless shadows the midnight hours draw near.
As I sit here musing, dreaming, and turning memory's leaves.
There pass in long procession, so many Christmas eves!
And one, of all the many, to-night stands out alone
In its joy and its tender sorrow, with a pathos all its own.
There were feasting and rejoicing, and the village streets were gay,
But the lights burned low and dimly in the house across the way.
Full well I knew the inmates — the household numbered three —
A husband, a dear old father, and a young wife fair to see.
Kindly they dwelt together, 'twas said none ever heard
In that house a tone of anger, nor any unkind word.
But Life and Death together that night had crossed the sill;
The good old man lay dying, and the fair young wife was ill.
Without the merry sleighbells rang up and down the street,
Within, were low-hushed voices, and the tread of noiseless feet.
A sound arose at midnight — the first cry of a child.
The dying grandsire heard it, looked up, and faintly smiled.
A son is born? I thank thee, O Father, for thy grace.
I go, but this one cometh, and he shall take my place.
I pray you bring him hither — go, bring the boy to me,
I fain would once behold him, while yet these eyes can see.
The babe was brought, and smiling, the old man softly said,
As he laid his pallid fingers on the tiny baby head:
I have no wealth to leave him, in houses or in lands, —
For e'en as I came hither, I go with empty hands:
But tell him for his grandsire — tell him as child and youth —
To be loyal, kind and loving, and always speak the truth .
But little more was spoken, a solemn silence fell,
Save but the sound of weeping, and the whisper, " All is well. "
When Christmas morn rose brightly from out the shadows gray,
A strip of crape was floating from the door across the way.
Amid the still night watches, thus calmly, peacefully,
Had the good old man departed — yet the household numbered three.
Though Life and Death come surely into the homes of men,
They come not oft together, and so peacefully as then.
And that is why, in my musings, that night stands out alone,
In its joy and its tender sorrow, with a pathos all its own.
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