The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1854-01-26
For the National Era.
THE CAROL Myers.
A CHRISTMAS TALE.

Merrily on the night air rung out the sweet
toned bells On the beautiful Christmas Eve,
and louder and louder sweIled their Joyous
Ginning until the far-off stars seemed TO roll
back the echoes and repeat the holy anthem
nrst sung by Heayens s.osinr1s chair . FN-=.s~
on earth, goodwill toward man, Scarcely
had the last sound died away and the clear air
ceased quivering, when there came forth from
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, Ital-
ian voices sounded strangely melodous 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 there1 Within those massive
walls are those whom society has condemned
to q fearful doOm--thOse whom she has shut
up from the blessed air and the glorious sun
light, aud branded with an accursed name
ftIOn. 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
f0ated 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 in LIES great anthem, tren,-
bed and sent forth tones, faltering but sweet
and through the darkened chambers of many
"a soul went - low, mournful voice, that seemed
the echo OF something that in purcr days had
been wont tC murInur there.
Come with me into one Of these desolate cells
and mark It's inmate He is an old man aud
the gray hairs that should be q crown Of
glory" are falling with q neglected look over
his fiIrrowed brow. His face is buried in his
hands, and as he sits on his low couch. rocking
his body to and ffo he utters deep groans that
seem bursting up from the very depths of an
agonized heart. The sweet music seems to be
all unheeded for time, but gradually lac
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. Hark how the blessed voices arc
singing
Lorg hast thou wandered an exile and lone
Years oer thy temples their shadows have thrown:
Friends thou hast loved have gone down to the tomb
Hopes thou hast cherished been shrouded in gloom
Sad heart and desoatc, why should'st thou rosIn
Turn thee, poor wanderer, back 10 thy home
OF tnc where thy iOOStepg have gfrgveH
Think Of the hoDie where thy childhood has played:
Think OF tho Dsoher whose heart breathing prayer
Rose by thy bedside on midnights still air
Sad heart and desolatc, why shouldst thou roam
Turn thee, poor wandcrer, back TO thy home
Look at the old man now See how his thin
lips culver, and OH see how the blessed tear
drops are gathering in his stony eyes. and
slowly trickling down his hollow cheef Long.
indeed, has it been since that fountain was uil-
sealed, and many dark stain will those tear8
wash away.
The music is hushed, and with the same
rapid step the singers have passed. Heavens
benson attend them But sec, the old man il
pacing his cell and hurriedly murmuring to
himself Listen to him" My home! On, yes,
| remember it-too well | remember it, ~
beautiful as it was, with the sunbeams ALWAYS
sleeping upon the threshold CT streaming in at
the window and the roses and sweet-brier that
clustered SO lovingly around, and the daisies
and Violets that peered out from the rich green
turf; and there was the great tree, where we
used to sit on the summer evenings, and watch
the stars stealing out, one by one. remember
it all now bitterly, bitterly! And mother nav
blessed mother, used to tell us q wondrops
story of One who was called "the bright and
morning star" | never hear of him now
never see the holy stars or the bright blossom
wonder II the flowers bloom around the old
home, now that the sods are piled over the
hands that reared them. Mother died lone
years ago, and dear little golden-b barred Matte
and then had nobody left to love me: nobod1
cared for me. Why shouldn't les the dari
tiends tempt ne to evil? And when I falteraJ
on the rough pathway, when slipped there
was no hand 20 hold me up, and so / snnl
down--down, till all the soul within me wes
crushed, and then they brought me here
: Turn, then, poor wandcrern-oht I mind ms
there was home our mother told us of wbers
the weary find rest and Saviour who heard