THE POETRY OF CHRISTMAS-TIME.

New Zealand Graphic, 20 December 1894, Page 6

THE POETRY OF CHRISTMAS-TIME.

POETS have ever delighted to sing of Christmas, but the season is also full of unwritten poetry. Its meaning is the finest, truest poem, and all its associations are poetic. Com mg once a year, its influ nee seems to linger over and to sanctify the whole of the following twelvemonth. Other old festivals pass gradually away and become obsolete ; but, somehow, we cannot let Christmas die. If it is childish to love its observance, we most of us grow childish once a year. The time is a special favourite with Englishmen, and to some extent it breaks down that coldness and reserve which foreigners say is one of their characteristics. Though many of the quaint old Christmas rites are now no longer observed, we still hope to preserve its holiness, its charity, its peacefulness and tenderness. Washington Irving, in the pages of his Sketch. Book, gives a graphic description of an English Christmas, which he thoroughly admired and appreciated. He says :—‘ The services of the Church about this time are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase m fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full justice on the morning that brought peace and goodwill to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.’ And again he says:—’Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of the night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in the still and solemn hour when “deep sleep falleth upon man,” I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and goodwill to mankind.’ Few Englishmen have entered into the spirit of Christmas more fully than did this American writer. Wordsworth, in the introduction to his ‘ Duddon ’ sonnets, says :— The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage eaves, and the bare mention of their music brings a host of tender recollections to our hearts. We think of the time when we ourselves, in our childhood, lay awake in a happy tremor of excitement, while the tones stole in at the frosted window. At such a time, old legends tell us, the Christ-child comes and walks once more on earth.

None hear the Christ-child. Ever silently The barred door opens to the tiny hand. And they alone this night the Christ-child see That pass, still children, to another land, Wherein His love hath called them to be. As we lay, almost fancying we heard the passing footsteps of the Christ-child, how suddenly the bells pealed forth in the silent, frosty air, to remind us that Christ, once born on earth, lives and has lived since the foundations of the world. Who is there that has not some tender and precious memories clinging to his idea of Christmas—some poetry which all the friction of the world has not rubbed off ? Who is there that does not feel a little tenderness at his heart as the season approaches ? It is not only a festival of hope, but a festival of memory, of home, of love, of re-union. It is a uniter of hearts long separated ; an awakener of emotions long buried and almost forgotten. Sometimes it may be the ‘ quiet sense of something lost ’ which it brings to us ; but it is ever a holy feeling, a peaceful, gentle whisper, a still small voice of recollection and of anticipation. Christmas does not do us much good, if it cannot rouse us a little from our selfishness ; if it does not cause us to think a little about other people. This seems to be the season’s special mission—to sweeten the year with a little charity and loving kindness. We should cast out our hatreds, our prejudices, our unkindnesses, not only now but at all times. To do so only for a few days once a year is something ; but of course not enough. There is a virtue that goes far beyond mere almsgiving; that passes far beyond the mere dropping of our superfluities for others less gifted by fortune to gather up. There is the ceaseless almsgiving of a loving heart—a heart that withholds not its sympathy, its pity, its help, and its tenderness. If we call ourselves religious, yet have not this love, our religion is dead and useless. Christmas, if it teaches us nothing else, should at least teach us this. Throughout all our writers, prose and poetic, there runs a vein of deep, earnest feeling when they mention Christmas time. The poetry of the season has entered into their souls, the glory of its presence has fallen upon their hearts and abideth there. It conjures up precious dreams of the past, like a diver recovering lost treasure, it lights the present with gladness and the future with hope. These thoughts render it almost a sacrilege to call Christmas ‘merry,’ though the name is sanctioned by old and venerable usage. Merry ! —it is something better than that. Merriment is well enough ; but joy, if we can obtain it, is far better. And, strange as it may seem to say so, no one knows real joy who has not also known real sorrow. The mirth of childhood, and of inexperience, is nothing compared to the calm strength and gladness of a soul that has suffered and striven. ■ Rise happy morn, rise holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born.*