Classic Poem

A Christmas eve. The white stars glow
Afar in the deep, dark sky;
The moonbeams sparkle on the frozen snow,
And the merry bells go by.

Love scatters gifts, and voices gay
Ring out in laughter sweet,
Amid the scamper of children's play,
And the tread of dancing feet.

While happy childhood hugs its toy,
And the windows blaze with light,
And the little town goes wild with joy —
Is any one sad to-night?


A farm house, where the village street
Turns to a country road,
Where sleighs go skimming, smooth and fleet,
Each with its merry load.

Within, no sound of festal mirth —
No lights flash out on the snow,
Two old folks cower above the hearth —
Their two gray heads bowed low.

Why sit they so, beside the fire,
Speaking but words of grief?
Trouble is on them, dark and dire —
A mortgage — and grace is brief.

And that not all, that not the worst.
" O, John! our John! " cries she.
" Had we but the boy I bore and nursed,
We never should homeless be.

" Dead in the mountains, bleak and cold —
Unburied for aught we know —
Alas, and alas for the quest of gold,
And the cruel cold and snow! "


Up in a town a moneyed man,
In his mansion tall and grand,
Knits his brow as he stoops to scan
A paper in his hand.

" I'll do it, I'll do it, " he softly said,
" Their grief shall be touched with joy.
'Twill pluck one thorn from my dying bed —
And Winnie — she loved the boy. "

He knew the sorrow she did not tell;
He knew, and it grieved him sore.
(The old man loved his ducats well,
But he loved his daughter more.)

" Winnie, Winnie! " he called, " come here. "
The daughter came slowly in,
Pale as a lily on the mere,
Her wan cheeks hollow and thin.

" Your Christmas gift, my little maid;
See — do you understand?
'Tis all your own, " he said, and laid
The paper in her hand.

A glance, a flush or grand surprise.
A word of thanks — but one.
The tears were streaming from her eyes,
Her arms about him thrown.

" Go, love, " he said, " the streets are light, "
And led her to the door.
" You know whose hearts are sad to-night —
I need not tell you more. "


Still sat, before the dull red flame,
Those two, so bowed and gray;
And ere they heard or saw who came,
At their feet a paper lay.

" Dear friends, I bring my Christmas gift —
The mortgage — there it lies. "
She seized it — " See the mortgage lift!
'Tis burnt before our eyes. "

Such blessings as in showers fell
On that sobbing maiden's head
Not tongue or pen of mine can tell,
Nor the loving things they said.

And now (this is a wondrous night!)
At the door a step is heard.
The three spring upright, still and white,
And gaze, but speak no word.

So gaunt, so pale his visage shows —
'Tis John, and yet not he —
Till close he comes, and, laughing, throws
His arms around the three.

" And so you thought me dead " — (at last) —
" 'Twas fever, and not the cold,
That laid me low and held me fast,
In the far-off land of gold.

" The mortgage? It went up in flame?
Sorry for that, " he said.
" No matter, though; 'tis all the same —
To-morrow it shall be paid. "

The curtain falls. No need to tell
Of the joyous feast that night:
Of the thankful hymns that rose and fell:
Of the maiden's shy delight;

Or how, ere closed another day,
The rich man was paid in gold;
Or how he gave his daughter away
To a bridegroom frank and bold.