Daily national era. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1854, 1854-01-16
A CHRISTMAS TALE.

4. Il
Merrily on the night air rung out the sweet
toned bells on the beautiful Christmas Eve,
and louder and louder swelled their Joyous
Ginning until the fnr-oH stars seemed to roll
back the echoes and repeat the holy anthem
first sung by Heavens glorious choir: Peace
on earth, good will toward man. Scarcely
had the last sound died away, and the clear mir
ceased qniverng when there came forth from
a humble dwelling two slender forms, and
rapidly making their way to the principal
street of the city, commenced singing songs
and Christmas Carols under the windows OF
the splendid mansions Their Deep rich, ltal-
ian voices sounded strangely melodious in the
stiffness Of the night, and failed not to attract
the delighted attention Of the inmates; and the
Carol Singers went not away unrewarded from
a single door.
But, leaving at last the homes Of luxury,
they bent their steps to dark, narrow street,
and paused under grated window What
wanted they there Within those massive
walls are those whom society has condemned
to q fearful doom-those whom she has shut
mp from the blessed air and the glorious sun
light and branded with an accursed name
fefon. Surely, the sweet language of Heaven
must sound strangely to ears long accustomed
to other notes. But clear and sweet rose the
voices, and song after song warbled forth and
foated in through the barred windows, and
the CRATES Of iron had no power to take aught
from its heaven-born melody And did they
hear the music - those dark spirits within
Aye, and many chord, that had long ceased
to make harmony 10 life's great anthem, trem
bled and sent forth tones, faltering but sweet,
and through the darkened chambers Of many
q soul went low, mournfnl voice. that seemed
the echo Of something that IN purer days had
been won't to murmur there.
Come with me into one Of these desolate celia
and mark its inmate He is an old man. and
the gray hairs that should be I" a crown OF
glory" are falling with q neglected look over
his furrowed brow. His face tx buried in his
hands, and as he sits ON his low couch, rocking
his body 10 and fro, he utters deep groans that
seem bursting up from the very depths Of an
ag0nized heart. The sweet music seems 10 be
all nDheeded for q time, but gradually he
grows calm, and now he has risen from his
seat, and, approaching the window, leans his
head against the bars, and seems absorbed in
listening. Hank how the blessed voices are
singing
Long hast thou wandered an exile and lone
Years OF thy temples their shadows have thrown
Friends thon hast loved have gone down TO the tomb
Hopes thou hast cherished been shrouded in gloom
Sad heart and desolate, why shouldst thou roam
Turn thee, poor wsnjercr, back TO thy home.
Think of the haunt where thy footsteps have sirayed
Think Of the hoaaewhere thy childhood has played
Think Of the mother whose heart breathing PRAYER
Rose by thy bedside midnight's still air
Sad heart and desolate. why should st thou roam
Turn thee, poor wanderer, back TO thy home.
Look ut the old man now See how his thin
lips culver, and oh sec how the blessed tear.
drops are gathering in his stony eyes, and
slowly triekling down his hollow checks. Long,
indeed, has il been since that fountain was un,
sealed, and many dark stain will those tears
wash away.
The music IL hushed, and with the same
RAPID step the singers have passed Heavens
benson attend them But see, the old man il
pacing his cell and hurriedly murmuring 10
himself Listen 10 him. My home Oh, yes,
remember it-too well | remember ii. 40
beautiful az il was, with the sunbcams always
sleeping uTon the threshold or streaming in at
che window, and the roses and sweet brier that
clustered 40 lovingly around and the daisies
and vioIets that pcercd out from the rich green
turf; and there was the great tree, where we
used 10 sit on the summer evenings and watch
the stars stealing ont one by one. remember
IL all now bitterly, binerfyt And mother, my
blessed mother, used 10 tell us a wondrous
story Of One who was called 3the bright and
morning star ] never hear Of him now
never zee the holy stars or the bright blossoms.
wonder IL the flowers bloom around the old
home, nov that the sods are piled over the
hands that reared them! Mother died long
years ago, and dear little golden-haircd Nettie,
and then had nobody Left to love me; nobody
cared for me. Why shoudn't ] let the dark
fends tempt me % evil And when faltercd
on the rough pathway, when slipped there
was no hand to hid me up, and 40 ! sunk
downdown, till all the soul within me was
crushed, and then they brought me here
Turn, then, poor wandcrer oh mind rue
there was home onr mother told us Of, where
the weary find resi- and a Saviour who heard
the cry Of the poor and needy Oh, holy One
wilt thou not hear me God Of my mother
wilt thou not saye me ~
God pity the poor heart for man has little
hympathy Cor the erting. And nov, on this
beautiful Christmas eve, while the bells are
pesling ont from every spire and tower 10 greet
the day when The Holy One came to seek and
save the lost sheep q tho house OF Israel
ws pas unheeding BY many an erring brother