human
Can you write me a poem about christmas carol and ten?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about christmas carol and ten:
  'The Darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we finde a roome
To welcome Him. The nobler part
Of all the house here is the heart,
Which we will give Him, and bequeath
This hollie and this ivie wreath
To do Him honour who's our King,
The Lord of all this revelling'
HERRICK, _A Christmas Carol_
(_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved_)
When the Angel of the waters
With a gold and silver wing
Gently stirred the wave baptismal,
Heard ye not their carolling
Who of old to Eastern shepherds
Heralded their King?
To the shepherds of His people
Still those angel-voices tell
How God's river feeds the fountain
Yielding the baptismal waters
Of salvation's well.
Children, you have passed those waters,
Love-begotten from the dead;
Will you make a gallant promise
When my verses you have read--
'We will trace life's lovely river
To the Fountain-head'?
'They bring me sorrow touched with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.'
TENNYSON, _In Memoriam_.
The Royal Birthday dawns again,
A stricken world to bless;
And sufferers forget their pain,
And mourners their distress.
Love sings to-day; her eyes so fair
With happy tears are wet;
She is too humble to despair,
Too faithful to forget.
Her voice is very soft and sweet,
Her heart is brave and strong;
Her vassal, I would fain repeat
Some fragments of her song.
A Birthday-song my heart would sing
Its rapture to express;
My Father's son must be a king,
And share His consciousness.
Of God's Self-knowledge comes the Word
That utters all His Thought;
That Word made Flesh by all is heard
Who seek as they are sought.
His seeking and His finding make
Our search an easy thing;
He sows good seed, and bids us take
The joys of harvesting.
Yet must His children do their part,
And what He gives accept;
No heart can understand His Heart
That has not bled and wept.
All seasons, bring they bale or bliss,
His priceless treasures hold;
The Winter's silver all is His,
And His the Summer's gold.
Life's harvest is not reaped until
The Christ within has grown
To perfect manhood, and self-will
By love is overthrown.
Such manhood gained concludes the strife
That makes the babe a boy;
'T is thus the seed becomes a life,
The life becomes a joy.
The eyes that weep are eyes that see,
And swift are pilgrim-feet;
Ah! hope at length may come to be
Than memory more sweet.
So keeping festival to-day,
With children's laughter near,
It is not hard to sing and pray,
'T is hard to doubt or fear.
Father, my heart to Thee I bring,
To Thee my song address;
From Winter pain and toil of Spring
Grows Summer happiness.
Behold, by Raphael shown, Love's sacrament!
Earth's curtains part, God's veil is lifted up;
There comes a Child, forth from His Bosom sent
To rule the feast of life, His Bread and Cup,
His purpose making plain with man to sup.
Out-streams the light, accomplished is the Sign,
A Virgin-Mother clasps a Babe Divine.
Her lovely feet descend the cloudy stair,
Great succour bringing to a world forlorn;
On either side a man and woman share
A common rapture, welcoming the dawn
Of God's new day, the everlasting morn--
Of such a day as shall from East to West
Dispel the darkness, doing Love's behest.
He turns a face all radiant to the Sun,
Enamoured of the sight he looks upon;
She to the end of what is now begun
Downgazes, stooping, shadowed by the throne
Made by a Maiden's arms, maternal grown;
Than ivory most fair, than purest gold,
More pure, more fair, and stronger to uphold.
On cherubs twain, whom watching has made wise,
A spell has fallen--a prophetic dream;
Their upward-gazing and far-seeing eyes,
Like stars reflected in a tranquil stream,
To look beyond the Child and Mother seem;
A twisted thorn-branch and a cross to them
Are manifest--His throne and diadem.
High heaven open stands, and there a crowd
Of worshippers with love-lit eyes appear,
Like stars down-gazing through a fleecy cloud,
Dimly discerned as morning draweth near
Spreading a radiant pall upon night's bier.
The blessed thing the Sign doth signify
They partly know, and are made glad thereby.
But more the Mother knows, and more she sees
Than soaring angel or than climbing saint;
Her heart familiar grown with mysteries
Of God's own working under love's constraint,
The remedy she knows for man's complaint.
The clouds are all beneath her, and above
The light of life, the radiancy of love.
And He, Whom Lord of love and life we hail,
Is on her bosom borne, a blossom fair;
The pentecostal breath that lifts her veil
Has fanned His royal brow, and stirred His hair,
And kissed His lips just parted for a prayer.
That spirit-wind shall blow, that Face shall shine,
Till all His brothers know their Father's Sign.
Of old through gates that closed on them
Two exiles went with eyes downcast;
The Present now retrieves the Past,
God's Eden is in Bethlehem.
An Eden that no walls enclose
By Mary's arms encompassèd,
A living shrine, a 'house of bread,'
A very haven of repose.
Behold the Prince of Peace! around
His cradle angry tempests rage;
He needs must go on pilgrimage,
An exile, homeless and discrowned.
And yet, His Rank to designate,
The unquenched Star of Bethlehem
Shines forth, a radiant diadem;
While Angels on His footsteps wait.
E'en now the Father's Face they see,
A triumph-song e'en now they sing,
And, wondering and worshipping,
Two guard the frowning gateway: one
Is of a solemn countenance;
To him a rapid backward glance
Reveals a massacre begun.
The other, forward gazing, sees
The glory of the age to come,
The fruitfulness of martyrdom,
Of deaths that are nativities.
O weeping mothers, dry your tears!
The Mother whom this canvass shows
Nor fears, nor weeps, although she knows
An anguish deeper than your fears.
She knows a comfort deeper still
For all who fare on pilgrimage;
By suffering from age to age
God seals the vassals of His Will.
Her Burden is upholding her;
And, guided by the Holy Dove,
She sees the victory of Love
To shield her, Joseph stands: his care
The shadow of God's Providence.
How fragrant is the frankincense
Of their uninterrupted prayer!
Through ever-open gates they press,
A new and living way they tread,
So gain they the true 'House of Bread,'
A garden for a wilderness.
A flight it seems to us; to them
It is a going forth to win
The world from Satan and from sin,
And build the New Jerusalem.
Lord Christ! for every seeking soul
All, all shall find one coming day
Thy Heart their everlasting goal!
A cloistered garden was the place
Where Mary grew, God's perfect flower;
One, only one, discerned her grace,
And visited her bower.
God's choice was his; by love made strong
To guard the Mother of the King;
No heart, save hers, had e'er a song
So sweet as his to sing.
Yet lives there on the sacred page
No record of a word from him;
God's Ark he guards, a silent sage,
But sweeter than the sweetest word
Recorded of the wise and good,
His silence is a music heard
On high, and understood.
Blessed are all who take their part
Amid the carol-singing throng;
Thrice blest the meditative heart
Whose silence is a song.
Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters,
May the music of your song
Silence all the dark forebodings
That have plagued the world too long;
He who made your voices tuneful
Comes to right the wrong.
Warble on, ye feathered songsters,
Lift your praises loud and high,
Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,
In the grove and in the sky
Till we make reply.
Children's laughter is a music
Flowing from a hidden spring,
Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,
Well is worth discovering;
Slowly dies the heart that knows not
How to laugh and sing.
Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer
All sweet voices are the echoes
That in varied tones reply
To that Voice which through the ages
Sings earth's lullaby.
Oftentimes a sleepless infant
For a season frets and cries:
All at once an unseen finger
Curtains up the little eyes.
So the cradled child He nurses
God will tranquillise.
His the all-enfolding Presence;
Oh, what tutelage it brings
To the little lives that ripen
'Neath the shelter of its wings;
God's delays are no denials,
As He waits He sings!
They alone are seers and singers
Who invalidate despair
By the lofty hopes they cherish,
By the gallant deeds they dare,
By the ceaseless aspirations
Of a life of prayer.
Brothers, sisters, lift your voices,
May the rapture of your song
Put to flight the sad misgivings
That have vexed the world too long;
God would have us share the triumph
That shall right the wrong.
Behold! the world's inheritance,
The treasure-trove of happy homes;
Whereby the poorest hut becomes
A fairy-palace of romance.
A cradle is the mother's shrine:
Two lamps o'erhang it--her sweet eyes,
Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise,
On sleeping infancy divine.
The presence of a 'holy thing,'
Madonna-wise, her heart discerns,
And like a fragrant censer burns,
O'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Her brooding motherhood is strong;
A trembling joy her bosom stirs,
Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers,
'Magnificat' is all her song.
'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails'
The waking moment she awaits,
The opening of two pearly gates,
The lifting of two silken veils.
Ah! then, what words can tell the bliss,
The rapture of the fond embrace,
When mother's lips on baby's face,
Feast and are feasted with a kiss?
And who can tell of hands and feet
The dimpled wonders, hidden charms,
The dainty curves of legs and arms,
So sweet and soft, so soft and sweet?
This is the world's possession still,
The treasure-trove of wedded hearts,
Whereby a Father's love imparts
His joy, their gladness to fulfil.
All empty stands a little cradle-bed,
A mother's falling tears the only sound;
But not of earth her thoughts, nor underground;
Up-gazing she discerns the Fountain-head
Of life; the living Voice she hears that said
'Fear not' to weeping women who had found
An empty tomb, and angels watching round,
Who asked 'Why seek the living with the dead?'
So weeps our Mother Church--her tears outshine
Sun-smitten dewdrops on a summer's morn;
God's rainbow girdles her, Hope's lovely sign,
Whereby she knows that smiles of tears are born;
Fulfilled of life herself, she would assure
Her children all of death's discomfiture.
God grant through coming years and days
Our beating hearts may be
The harps that celebrate His praise
Who loves eternally!
No ache can be without relief
When Love Himself draws near;
No cup can empty stand, no grief
Embitter God's New Year.
Time's footsteps quickly die away,
Soon emptied is his glass;
We wait for an oncoming Day
Which nevermore shall pass.
Old hopes revive, new hopes are born,
The coming months to cheer;
And phantom-fears and griefs outworn
Die with the dying year.
Oh, all the years and all the days
Our waiting hearts shall be
Harps tremulous with His dear praise
The sun methinks rose rosy-red
On that great New Year's Day,
When Blood was in the cradle shed
Where Mary's Darling lay.
The lark, uprising with the sun,
Was silent on the wing;
The nightingale, when day was done,
Forgot her song to sing.
A holy silence reigned around,
And hushed was every voice,
When in the crib the Cross was found,
The Infant-Victim's choice.
As moonbeam on a mountain-mere
The Mother's face was white;
Her eyes were stars, and every tear
Gave lustre to their light.
Methinks a blushing moon looked down
Upon that manger-bed,
And wove a mystic glory-crown
Around the Sleeper's head.
The silence issues in a song,
It rises and it swells;
E'en than the lark's more blithe and strong,
Sweeter than Philomel's,
His Church's anthem loud and long
The Victim's triumph tells.
In boyhood's sorrow-shadowed days,
Which memory recalls to-day,
In many moods and many ways,
My yearning heart would pray.
'T was holy ground where'er I set
My feet, God's shrine was everywhere;
But this I scarcely knew as yet--
_Christ is His Father's Prayer_.
God ever seeks His children's bliss,
Appeals to them; and, rightly heard,
The music of creation is
The echo of His Word.
But when the child has learnt his part,
The echo is an answer strong;
A prayer up-springing from the heart
That blossoms in a song.
The homeward way His Feet have trod
Mankind must travel by.
And every man, God's child and priest,
Is pledged to ministry divine,
Who sees the Ruler of life's feast
Turn water into wine;
Who hears the Father's voice above,
The Spirit's whispering within;
Who knows the Messenger of love
The Conqueror of sin.
Responsive to God's call, our Prayer
Art Thou, dear Lord, whene'er we pray;
So always now, and everywhere,
My heart keeps holiday.
ON THE DANUBE: _Feast of the Holy Name_, 1883.
Is life sad for lost love's sake,
Falls a blight upon thy bliss,
Smiles no more their sunshine make,
Lips estranged withhold their kiss?
For thy consolation take
Some such song as this:--
Help our weeping eyes to see;
Never may we deem things are
What to us they seem to be;
Rise, Thou Dayspring, and afar
Bid the shadows flee!
Jesu, Thou art swift to bless,
Strong to comfort, skilled to heal;
Failure is with Thee success,
Woe the forerunner of weal;
Every stroke is a caress,
Every crust a meal.
Master, Thou canst raise the dead
From the grave, the bed, the bier,
Souls astray, forlorn, misled,
Buffeted by doubt and fear,
Cannot but be comforted
When Thou drawest near.
Sweeter than the Sunday-bells
Banishing all week-day cares,
Thine the gracious voice that tells
What a Father's love prepares,
Leading to salvation's wells
Up God's altar-stairs.
Lord, Thou art the Master-singer,
And Thy song is a recall;
Many on life's pathway linger,
Many by life's wayside fall,
But Thy Heart, the comfort-bringer,
Is a Home for all!
The poet is the child of God,
Who with anointed eye
Discerns a sacrament of love
In earth and sea and sky,
And finds himself at love's behest
Constrained to prophesy.
Love is of loveliness the root,
Love is of life the spring,
Love is the sole interpreter
Of every lovely thing:
This is the burden of his song,
Well may the poet sing!
A joy-inspirèd song he sings
Because far off he hears
A whisper silencing the storm,
A laughter through the tears,
The music of eternity
Beyond the dying years.
His song is rapture, for he sees
God's loveliness, and we,
When with his insight we are blest,
Shall share his ecstasy;
Oh, come the day when all shall sing
As blithe a song as he!
Thou art the Poet true;
The men who would Thy vision share
Must learn Thy works to do,
All, all shall have the singing heart
Whose feet Thy steps pursue!
Three fountains clear as crystal spring
In one secluded garden-plot;
In shade and shelter of one cot
Three sister-doves are harbouring.
Adown one pathway hand in hand
Three Sister-Graces wend their way;
I shall not soon forget the day
I met with them in fairy land.
They _dawned_, I know not how or whence:
A halo circling round the head
Of each, whereby transfigurèd
They clomb the hill of frankincense.
I know not whence or how, they _bloomed_:
Each sweeter than the sweetest rose
That in the haunted garden grows
Where burns the bush still unconsumed.
And one is like a rising sun
When dewy Morn unveils her eyes;
And one is as Minerva wise;
And very lily-like is one.
And all are dear. I seem to see
The weaving of a threefold cord--
To hear a softly whispered word,
'Love makes a unity of three.'
Children know the things I know not,
Though they know not that they know;
I should know not, should love grow not,
That I know not it is so.
Flowers feebly rooted blow not,
Shallow waters overflow not,
Love is doomed unless it grow.
Fools who think to reap and sow not
Growing love will overthrow;
Love's rebuke must undergo;
All who love's insignia show not,
Who on love themselves bestow not,
Love, full grown, shall lay them low.
The Pilgrim-Kings their King have found,
The Wise Men kneel at Wisdom's shrine,
Their royal gifts His Crib surround,
He gives them bread and wine.
One Star has pointed to the Sun,
That men may see and understand
The witness borne by all to One,
Who holds in His Right Hand,
Like lamps that round an altar burn,
All lights that shine, all worlds that be
Crowned are the men whose hearts discern
Their King's Epiphany.
The Child obedient sets His face
To seek His Father's House of Prayer,
With other children takes His place,
And is a learner there.
Two worlds there are; the child to each
Belongs, God's prophet, born to bless;
But not by action, nor by speech,
Simply by winsomeness.
For, like the Child of Bethlehem,
Babes bring their blessing from afar,
Enriching all who wait on them
By being what they are.
A voice from heaven spake aloud,
Heard clearly by the Bridegroom's friend
When, shadowed by the glory-cloud,
He saw the Dove descend.
One Voice has heralded the Word,
That listening men may truly know
What mean all voices they have heard
Above, around, below--
Soft whisperings and laughters loud,
The song of birds, the insects' hum,
Storm-music of the thunder-cloud--
That jubilance of bridal mirth,
First felt at Cana, has not ceased;
Christ's Presence still regales the earth,
Still glorifies the feast.
The Ruler of the feast of life
Still with a sacramental sign
Confirms the love of man and wife,
And makes the water wine.
And His the glory still revealed
When lovers plight and keep their vows;
Himself the Bridegroom Who has sealed
The children's star-crowned Bethlehem,
The children's 'house of bread,'
Where Jesus' arms encircle them,
With milk and honey fed:--
Such is the Church, whose altar-gates
Stand ever open, when
The board is furnished where He waits
To feast the hearts of men.
A Babe He came one heart to bless
(It is His cradle still),
And evermore her blessedness
Is theirs who do His will;
A Child He trod the Temple-floor,
By Mary Mother led;
By children's voices evermore
His praise is perfected.
'Forbid them not,' He said of old:
The words so stern and sweet
Still make believing mothers bold
To gather at His Feet,
And bring their babes; their hearts discern
(And oh, that others would!)
How mother-like His Heart must yearn
Who made their motherhood.
A happy Home where children pray,
With milk and honey fed,
Whose altar-hearth burns bright alway,
Whose board is richly spread:--
Such is the Church; and sweet the song
Her little children sing,
Of all who round His Altar throng
The dearest to our King.
Can priestly lips, long silenced, raise
A strain so lofty and so strong,
Making our matin hymn of praise
As jubilant as evensong?
Yes: not the lips alone, the eyes
Of Zacharias were unsealed,
To see and sing the mysteries
To love and penitence revealed.
With keen prevision of the seer
He sings of a redemption wrought,
Whereby, released from slavish fear,
Men are to filial freedom brought.
Three things immutable and sure,
His promise, covenant, and oath,
Reveal God's purpose, and secure
Whate'er man needs for life and growth.
The promise to the fathers made
Was seen and known--th' Incarnate Word;
The Cross His covenant displayed,
His oath at Pentecost was heard.
Well may this father's heart rejoice,
And with prophetic rapture sing;
His song a prelude to that 'Voice'
Predestined to proclaim the King.
His joy a foretaste of that mirth
Which shall the hearts of all possess,
When o'er a recreated earth
Christ's sceptre reigns in righteousness.
Of light he sings for darkened eyes,
For wandering feet the way of peace,
Tells how the Dayspring shall arise,
And shadows flee and sorrows cease.
And still the Church's children raise
That strain so lofty and so strong,
Which makes their matin hymn of praise
As jubilant as evensong.
Earth's noise God's music supersedes,
Sin's discord it excludes,
It tells us of a Lamb that bleeds,
And of a Dove that broods.
It tells us of a Child Who brings
The help that sets us free;
The song His Maiden-Mother sings
Of saved Humanity.
The Mother's and the Sister's part
She plays; she leads the choir
Of those whose purity of heart
Is passionate desire.
Above the blood-encrimsoned sea,
Dispelling doubt and fear
With her celestial minstrelsy,
Our Miriam doth cheer
The men whose homeward-going hearts
Are loyal to their King;
When all from her have learnt their parts,
Then shall creation sing!
The sweetest of the Gospel songs,
To all the Saints so dear,
To every eventide belongs
Throughout the changeful year.
It sanctifies the vesper hour
When summer smiles serene;
It is a joy-constraining power
When winter blasts are keen.
'My soul doth magnify the Lord'--
Ecstatic is the voice
That sings of Paradise restored--
'My spirit doth rejoice!'
To cradle Mary's Child his heart
An old man opens wide:
Behold him in God's peace depart,
And in God's peace abide.
He sings the very Song of Peace,
His lullaby shall never cease
To make its music heard.
For all the children of the Bride,
The subjects of the King,
With each returning eventide
Have learnt his song to sing.
He sings of 'peace,' 'salvation,' 'light:'
His lovely words we take
For consolation night by night,
Until God's morning break.
Then, when our dazzled eyes grow dim,
Breathed with our parting breath
The old man's sweet, heart-soothing hymn
Glad welcome gives to death.
We too what Simeon saw may see--
The Mother undefiled,
Our hearts enfold as blissfully
Shall we take the verses in order?
Verse 1. Three fountains (which issue forth from beneath one
The Tree of Life is the real Christmas Tree. Its underwoven roots
 Psalm cix. 4: 'I am prayer' is the literal translation.--KAY.