16

CHRISTMAS NUMBER OF HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

[ Conducted by

with glossy black hair, who was to have dined
with me on Christmas-day, and who took
such pity on mo that she shortly became
Mrs. Prupper. Our eldest boy was born, by
a curious coincidence, next Christmas-day–––
which I kept very jovially, with the doctor,
after it was all over, and we didn't christen
him Whitecross.

THE ORPHAN'S DREAM OF
CHRISTMAS.

IT was Christmas Eve–––and lonely,
   By a garret window high,
Where the city chimneys barely
   Spared a hand's-breadth of the sky.
Sat a child, in age,–––but weeping,
   With a face so small and thin,
That it seem'd too scant a record
   To have eight years traced therein.

Oh, grief looks most distorted
   When his hideous shadow lies
On the clear and sunny life-stream
   That doth fill a child's blue eyes!
But her eye was dull and sunken,
   And the whiten' d cheek was gaunt,
And the blue veins on the forehead
   Were the pencilling of Want.

And she wept for years like jewels,
   Till the last year's bitter gall,
Like the acid of the story,
   In itself had melted all;
But the Christmas time returned,
   As an old friend, for whose eye
She would take down all the pictures
   Sketch'd by faithful Memory,

Of those brilliant Christmas seasons,
   When the joyous laugh went round;
When sweet words of love and kindness
   Were no unfamiliar sound;
When, lit by the log's red lustre,
   She her mother's face could see,
And she rock'd the cradle, sitting
   On her own twin-brother's knee:

Of her father's pleasant stories;
   Of the riddles and the rhymes,
All the kisses and the presents
   That had mark'd those Christmas times
'Twas as well that there was no one
   (For it were a mocking strain)
To wish her a merry Christmas,
   For that could not come again.

How there came a time of struggling,
   When, in spite of love and faith,
Grinding Poverty would only
   In the end give place to Death;
How her mother grew heart-broken,
   When her toil-worn father died,
Took her baby in her bosom,
   And was buried by his side:

How she clung unto her brother
   As the lust spar from the wreck,
But stem Death had come between them
   While her arms were round his neck.
There were now no loving voices;
   And, if few hands offered bread,
There were none to rest in blessing
   On the little homeless head.

Or, if any gave her shelter,
   It was less of joy than fear;
For they welcomed Crime more warmly
   To the selfsame room with her.
But, at length they all grew weary
   Of their sick and useless guest ;
She must try a workhouse welcome
   For the helpless and distressed.

But she prayed; and the Unsleeping
   In His ear that whisper caught:
So he sent down Sleep, who gave her
   Such a respite as she sought;
Drew the fair head to her bosom,
   Pressed the wetted eyelids close,
And, with softly-falling kisses,
   Lulled her gently to repose.

Then she dreamed the angels, sweeping
   With their wings the sky aside,
Raised her swiftly to the country
   Where the blessed ones abide:
To a bower all flushed with beauty,
   By a shadowy arcade,
Where a mellowness like moonlight
   By the Tree of Life was made:

Where the rich fruit sparkled, star-like,
   And pure flowers of fadeless dye
Poured their fragrance on the waters
   That in crystal beds went by:
Where bright hills of pearl and amber
   Closed the fair green valleys round,
And, with rainbow light, but lasting,
   Were their glistening summits crown'd.

Then, that distant-burning glory,
   'Mid a gorgeousness of light!
The long vista of Archangels
   Could scarce chasten to her sight.
There sat One: and her heart told her
   'Twas the same, who, for our sin,
Was once born a little baby
   "In the stable of an inn."

There was music–––oh, such music!–––
   They were trying the old strains
That a certain group of shepherds
   Heard on old Judea's plains;
But, when that divinest chorus
   To a softened trembling fell,
Love's true ear discerned the voices
   That on earth she loved so well.

At a tiny grotto's entrance
   A fair child her eyes behold,
With his ivory shoulders hidden
   'Neath his curls of living gold;
And he asks them, "Is she coming?"
   But ere any one can speak,
The white arms of her twin brother
   Are once more about her neck.

Then they all come round her greeting;
   But she might have well denied
That her beautiful young sister
   Is the poor pale child that died;
And the careful look hath vanish'd
   From her father's tearless face,
And she does not know her mother
   Till she feels the old embrace.

Oh, from that ecstatic dreaming
   Must she ever wake again.
To the cold and cheerless contrast,–––
   To a life of lonely pain?