Christmas Carol, For 1862
by Margaret Junkin Preston
From "Beechenbrook," a Poem of the War
'Tis Christmas, the season of mirth and of cheer,
The happiest holiday known to the year,
The one that we oftenest love to recall -
Most ancient, most sacred, and dearest of all!
Turn the records of memory over and see,
What days of your childhood were fullest of glee -
What scenes are remembered as brightest with joy,
For the old and the young - for the maiden and boy -
When home with its festive and innocent mirth,
Seemed the sweetest and sunniest spot upon earth,
And the chimes of your heart most responsively rung,
To the song that the angels at Bethlehem sung;
Be sure that these white-letter days will be drawn, -
Now is it not so? - from your Christmasses gone.
How saddening the change is! The season's the same,
And yet it is Christmas in nothing but name:
No merry expression we utter to-day -
How can we, with hearts that refuse to be gay?
We look back a twelvemonth on many a brow
That graced the home hearthstone - and where are they now!
We think of the darling ones clustering there,
But we see thro' our tears, an untenanted chair;
We wait for a footstep - we wait, but in vain -
It will never return from the battle again:
The dear face is hidden cold under the clay -
His Christmas is kept with the angels to-day!
Thank God! there is joy in the sorrow for all -
He fell but it surely was blessed to fall;
For never shall murmur be heard from the mouth
Of mother or wife thro' our beautiful South,
Or sister or maiden yield grudging her part,
Tho' the price that she pays, must be coined from her heart!
We drop the close curtains - we stir up the fire,
And pile up the blazing hearth higher and higher;
We wheel up our chair, and with friends and good cheer,
We try to shut from us all visions of fear.
But the spectre will come - thro' the warmth and the light,
The camp gleams before us, all shrouded in white;
We tread the soft carpet, and lo! there's the sound
Of the half-frozen sentinel pacing his round.
Come hither, my pretty musician, - we say,
Come chase us this gloomy oppression away,
Her hand o'er the instrument gently she flings,
And this is the song of the Snow that she sings:
I.
Halt! the march is over;
Day is almost done;
Loose the cumbrous knapsack,
Drop the heavy gun:
Chilled, and worn, and weary,
Wander to and fro,
Seeking wood to kindle
Fires amidst the snow.
II.
Round the camp-blaze gather,
Heed not sleet nor cold;
Ye are Spartan soldiers,
Strong, and brave, and bold.
Never Xerxian army
Yet subdued a foe,
Who but asked a blanket
On a bed of snow!
III.
Shivering midst the darkness,
Christian men are found
There devoutly kneeling
On the frozen ground;
Pleading for their country
In its hour of woe,
For its soldiers marching
Shoeless through the snow!
IV.
Lost in heavy slumbers,
Free from toil and strife,
Dreaming of their dear ones -
Home, and child, and wife;
Tentless they are lying,
While the fires burn low -
Lying in their blankets,
Midst December's snow!
