But to song and praise and blessing
Of the happy, child-possessing,
Richly-gifted of the earth.
Christmas is the feast of mirth.
<g>Me He</g> sees not, nor takes heed
Of a lonely mother's need.—
[Goes cautiously to the window.]
Shall I draw the curtain back,
Till the clear and kindly ray
Chase the horror of night away
From his chamber bare and black?
Nay, he is not there at all.
Yule's the children's festival,
He hath got him leave to rise,
Haply now he stands, and cries,
Stretches little arms in vain
To his mother's darken'd pane.
Was not that a baby's voice?
Alf, I've neither will nor choice!
All is barr'd and bolted here.
'Tis thy father's bidding, dear!
Alf, I may not open now!
An obedient child art thou!
We ne'er grieved him, thou and I.
Oh, fly home then to the sky,
There is gladness, there is light,
There thy merry comrades stay
Till thou come to join their play.
Oh, but weep not in their sight,
Nor to any soul betray
That thy father bade me lock,
When thy little hand did knock.
Years bring sterner, sadder stress
Than a little child may guess.
Say, he sorrow'd, say, he sigh'd;
Say, he wove the garden's pride
