Daily Kennebec journal., 1880-12-25

Again, and yet again, Christmas s'refurns |
With the revolving year." and ~ it has been
for 90 many centuries. will be again celebra-
ted with the advent of frost and ice amid the
depths Of vinter-at least in the northern half
of The world; for in the southern hemisphere
Christmas comes hand in hand with midsum-
mer. and i welcomed, not by blazing logs
and jugs Of hot spiced fcaming ale, bat with
picnies under the cool shade of trees, tbough
even here the old associations hold their sway
and roast beef md Christmas puddings appear
upon the board.
To the poets Christmas has always been
dear, and has been celebrated by them il
some of the finest poetry in our language.
One Of the finest Christmas carols ever writ
ten is that Of Milton. which was written when
he was very young. 1t is descriptive of the
first Christmas day. when there was s'an nni-
versal peace through sea and land.
yor var nor battles sound
was heard the world around;
The idle smear and shield were high uphung,
The hooked chariot stood
Cnstain'd with hostile blood;
The trumpet speke mot to the armed ihrong;
And kings sat sffn with awful eye,
As II they surely knew their sovran Lord was nigh
Alas for the imperfection Of our Christiani-
ty! After an interval Of nineteen centuries,we
have not realized Peace on earth and good
will to Man, but wars and rumors Of wars
prevail from the far East to the farthest West,
alike amongst Pagan and Christian nations
and we are constrained to quote Milton with
q difference, for
Vow war and battles sound
Are heard the whole world round.
CoIeridQe, like his still greater master,
holds the same view, and in his Christmas
carol, written during the last year of the
eighteenth century Of the Christian Era, rep
~ V;ru;r, Motbar savsuo.
War {. ruaian, all with guilt defled.
That from the aged father tears the child.
Plumbers Gods world Of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day
Then wisely Is my soul eate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I'm poor and of . low estate,
The Mother Of the Prince Of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like Summer morn;
Peace, Peace earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
Turning from the view of Christmas as re-
CARDS the nations Of the earth to the congenial
aspect of its domestic side, let us welcome
him with Leigh Hunt, who sings
Christmas comes. he comes, he comes,
Ushered with rain of plums;
Hollies In the windows greet him.
Schools come driving home to meet him:
Every month delights to name him;
Wet and cold. and wind and dark,
Make him but the warmer mark.
No poet was ever more ardent in his praise
VI EODu Oiu CustOuIS IMAM iLC1Hh lIuut. tudt
most conservative of radicals He could even
celebrate and speak kindly of their excesses;
and in a strain of most pleasant banter he
writes of Christmas as the
Glorious time OF great Too Much,
Too mach fire and too much noise,
Too much babblement Of boys:
Too mach eating, too much drinking,
Too much ev'rything but thinking;
Solely bent to laugh and stuff,
And trample upon base Enough.
This is truly seasonable poetic license-a
running over, as it were, of animal spirits,
which was characteristic of the man, even
under the most severe depression. For no
one advocated more strongly than he did the
restriction Of enjoyment Of what he here
terms 'base Enough" and the distribution
of the surplus of the great Too Much amongst
those who unfortunately are innocent of all
familiarity with Enough.
Whatever the season may be, we have suffi-
cent faith in human nature to know that this
will be done, and that over the breadth and
length of the land practical messages of mer-
cy will be sent, and desOlate homes cheered
by the bounty Of those who find the greatest
pleasure that their wealth can afford is that
Of allevating the wants of others.
At present the weather promises to be of
the kind termed seasonable; and as such ill
be desired by most of our readers, we may
express hope for such Yuletide as that de-
scribed by the veteran poet, Lord Houghton
the Monckton Mines of our youth-in his
charming christmas Story
Long ere the dawn can claim the sky,
The tempest rolls subservient by;
While bells on all sides ring and say,
How Christ the Child was born to-day.
Some buttsyfes of snow NAV float
Down slowly, glisfening in the mote,
But crystal eaved and fruited trees
Scarce lose jewel In the breeze.
Frost diamonds twinkle on the grass
Transformed from pearly dew,
And silver flowers encrust the glass
Which gardens never knew.
London Queen.