The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn: Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born." CHRISTMAS IN 1875 Supposed to be written by a Spaniard WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT No trumpet-blast profaned The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born; Earth's silver rivers on that sacred morn; But, o'er the peaceful plain, The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded wain. The soldier had laid by The sword and stripped the corselet from his breast, And hung his helm on high The sparrow's winter home and summer nest; And, with the same strong hand That flung the barbèd spear, he tilled the land. Oh, time for which we yearn; Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold! Season of peace, return, Like a late summer when the year grows old, When the sweet sunny days Steeped mead and mountain-side in golden haze. For now two rival kings Flaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hostile flags, And every sunrise brings The hovering vulture from his mountain-crags Is strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain. Christ is not come, while yet O'er half the earth the threat of battle lowers, Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers Poured out where thousands die that one may reign. Soon, over half the earth, In every temple crowds shall kneel again Who brought the message of good-will to men, And bursts of joyous song Shall shake the roof above the prostrate throng. Christ is not come, while there The men of blood whose crimes affront the skies Amid the joyous strains, and when they rise To waste the land in His most holy name. Oh, when the day shall break O'er realms unlearned in warfare's cruel arts, To peaceful tasks performed with loving hearts. On such a blessed morn, Well may the nations say that Christ is born. THE GARDEN OF THE HOLY VIRGIN1 ALEXANDER KUPRIN FAR beyond the bounds of the Milky Way, upon a planet which will never be disclosed to the eye of the most diligent astronomer, blooms the wonderful, mysterious garden of the Holy Virgin Mary. All the flowers that exist upon our poor and sinful earth, bloom there for many long years, never fading, ever cared for by the patient hands of invisible gardeners. And each flower contains a particle of the soul of a man living on the earth, that particle which sleeps not during our nightly slumber, that leads us through marvelous lands, that shows us the centuries gone by, that conjures up before us the faces of our departed friends, that spins in our imagination the variegated tissues of our slumber-being, now sweet, now ludicrous, now terrible, now blissful, that makes us awaken in unreasonable joy, or in bitter tears, that often opens before us the impenetrable curtains, beyond which stretch out the dark paths of the future, discernible only to children, wise men, and blessed clairvoyants. These flowers are the souls of human dreams. Every time that the moon is full, in those hours of the 1 From "The Bracelet of Garnets, and Other Stories"; copyright, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. night that immediately precede the dawn, when our nightly visions are especially bright, lively, and restless, when the pale lunatics, with their eyes closed and their faces turned toward the sky, return to their cold beds along the dangerous edges of the house-tops, when the night-flowers open their chalices - then the Holy Virgin walks through her garden with light and quiet steps. To her right, glides the round moon, while behind it, never tarrying, always keeping the same distance, flows a little star, like a small boat tied with invisible threads to the stern of a large ship. Soon both the ship and the boat disappear, buried in the vaporlike, orange-colored clouds, and, suddenly, they appear in the dark-blue space. Then their light lends a silvery hue to the Holy Virgin's blue chiton and to her beautiful face, whose charm and blessedness no man can describe with word, brush, or music. And, fluttering in joyous impatience, the flowers sway on their thin stems and, like children, stretch out to touch the blue chiton with their petals. And Holy Mary gently smiles upon their pure joy, for she is the mother of Jesus, who loved flowers so dearly during his life on earth. With her thin, white, kind fingers she gently caresses the souls of children, the modest daisies, goldcups, snowdrops, veronicas, and the fairy spheres of dandelions. Boundless is her bounty, for it extends over them all: the daffodils, those beautiful love-flowers, the proud and passionate roses, the conceited peonies, the orchids, so terrible in their strange beauty, the bitter, fiery poppies, the tuberoses and hyacinths, that spread their heavy odors around the death-bed. She sends bright maidenly dreams to lilies-of-the-valley, violets, and mignonettes. And to the plain wild flowers, the souls of ordinary toilers, wearied with the day's labor, she sends profound, restful sleep. And she visits also the far-away corners of the garden, wildly overgrown with thorny, monstrous cactuses, greenish ferns, intoxicating hops, and the creeping, graveyard ivy, and to them all, despairing of joy on earth, disappointed in life, sorrowful, and grieving, gloomily hastening to meet death, she grants moments of complete forgetfulness, without dreams, without memories. And in the morning, when amidst the gold and crimson dawn, the triumphant sun, ever burning with the fire of victory, begins to rise, the Holy Virgin lifts her clear eyes toward heaven and says: "Be thou blessed, O Creator, who exhibits to us the sign of his greatness. Be blessed all his creation, too. Be blessed the sacred eternal maternity of the world. For ever and ever." And the flowers send their reply in scarcely audible whisper: "Amen." And like holy incense their aromatic breath rises upward. And the bright face of the sun trembles, reflected in many-colored rays from each dewdrop. On this night, too, the Holy Virgin walks through her garden. But sad is her beauteous face, lowered are the lashes of her bright eyes, powerless hang her arms along the folds of her blue chiton. Terrible visions float be |