Christmas Eve came to us darkly,
Darkly to our cottage door,
Not with brave and boisterous greeting,
As it used to come of yore;
Not with soft and silent snow-fall,
Nor with frost-wind brisk and keen,
Yet it brought its berries blushing
'Mid the holly, hale and green.

Many busy footsteps pattered
Through our little thoroughfare,
Children sent on pleasant errands
For the dainties they must share;
Young and merry-hearted maidens
Gaily flitted to and fro,
With a quick throb in their bosoms,
With their faces in a glow.

And the clean and cheerful windows
Gleamed upon the sombre night,
While commingled voices, singing,
Told of leisure and delight;
Genial voices, linked together
In some quaint and homely rhyme,
In some old and hopeful carol,
Fitted for the holy time.

In that little street of workers,
Brightening up from side to side,
One poor dwelling showed no signal
Of the merry Chrismastide;
Feebly shone a single taper
By the hearthstone, cold and bare;
Poverty and tribulation
Hung their mournful banners there.

A forlorn and friendless widow
Gazed upon her only boy,
Whose young stream of life was ebbing
Back unto a realm of joy;
And as Time, with stealthy footstep,
Strode into another day,
Death stood by that lonely mourner,
For the life had ebbed away.

With the first burst of her anguish
'Hark! what news the angels bring!'
Rang from loud and joyous voices,
Mixed with tuneful flute and string;
And she thought she heard her darling,
High among the radiant spheres,
Singing with melodious gladness
'Mother, mother, dry thy tears!'

And she dried them, and subdued them,
Kept their fountains sealed within,
Lest her unavailing sorrow
Should be written down as sin;
But the cheering faith came o'er her
That she was not all alone,
That the Child-God of the manger
Had the keeping of her own.