Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CHRISTMAS, 1899, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CHRISTMAS, 1899, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The din of the battlefield dies
Last Line: O beloved, o england, good-bye!
Subject(s): Christmas; Nativity, The


THE din of the battlefield dies,
The shouts of the foemen are still,
No more from the deep-trenched hill
The murderous battle-bolt flies.
Here, alone 'mid the silent slain,
Alone with no comforter nigh,
Too feeble for fear or for pain,
'Neath strange stars in the pitiless sky,
I make ready to die.

Here soon with the dawn's dim light,
Or may be in the lantern-lit dark,
They will find me stretched cold and stark,
A soldier who died in the night.
Is it I who lie helpless here, I,
Who this morning went pulsing with life
To drink the delight of the strife?
I, whose life ebbs away as I lie,
Making ready to die?

'Tis Christmas-tide over the Earth,
And thro' all our dear England to-night,
Hearths glow ruddy and hearts young and old are light
For joy of that marvellous birth.
Ah! if only some vision might come
Of the dear ones my eyes cannot see!
If some token of love might be wafted to me
From the silent lips in the well-loved home,
Ere my time comes to die!

Heaven! What is this comforting hand
Which touches my fast-closing eyes,
This Presence which opens a door in the skies,
Where all my beloved stand?
See, see 'tis my mother's kind face!
Smiling grave 'neath her silvery hair,
And my dearest love bending beside her chair!
And my children's careless innocent grace,
All are here, as I lie.

They are joyous, dear children, at play,
With the spoils of the old Christmas tree,
Heaven keep them from hurt and calamity free,
Till their sunny locks are grey.
My brave boy has his sword and his gun,
Like the soldier he wearies to be,
Can I wish for him more when his life is done
Than to fall for our England, if need shall be,
And die happy like me?

Thank Heaven for the vision! My heart
Beats high for a moment still,
As when we charged swift up this death-dealing hill
Each man striving to do his part.
I am troubled no longer, but lie
Happy, thinking of hearth and of home,
I rejoice that my dear ones were given to come,
I grow faint, 'tis the end, I am ready to die,
O beloved, O England, good-bye!





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