All on a Christmas Morning.

The wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick,     Deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew;     A young mother lay in her cottage, sick, -     Her needs were many, her comforts few.     Clasped to her breast was a newborn child,     Unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe;     And away, far away, in the tempest wild,     Was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow.     All on a Christmas morning, long ago.     The lamp burned low, and the fire was dead,     And the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack:     As she tossed and turned in her lowly bed,     And murmured, "Good Lord, bring my husband back."     The clocks in the city had told the hour     With a single stroke, for young was the day     But no swelling note from the loftiest tower,     Could reach that lone cot where a mother lay.     All on a Christmas morning, long ago.     High on the moorland that crowned the hill,     Bewildered, benumbed, midst the snow, so deep,     Fighting for life with a desperate will,     Lost, - wearied and worn, and oppressed with sleep,     Was the husband and father, with grief almost wild,     Bearing cordials and medicine safely bestowed,     That he'd been to obtain for his wife and child; -     Then exhausted he sank. - And it snowed, - and it snowed.     All on a Christmas morning, long ago.     The sun arose on a world so white,     That glistened and sparkled beneath his ray:     And the children's faces looked just as bright,     As they cried, "What a glorious Christmas day!"     In a lowly cot lay a stiff white form, -     And all was still, save a pitiful wail; -     No more should that mother fear sickness or storm; -     Together, two spirits sped through the dark vale.     All on a Christmas morning, long ago.     Friends who were coming to bring good cheer,     Found a young babe sucking a cold white breast.     Noiselessly, reverently, gathering near,     The orphan to full hearts was lovingly pressed.     The parents were laid side by side in the grave,     And the babe grew in beauty of face and of form;     And they still call her Snowdrop, the name that they gave, -     Sweet Snowdrop, - the frail little flower of the storm.     All on a Christmas morning, long ago.