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Dear smoky Birmingham, since long ago
I left your native streets, my heart and hope
Have been with those dense crowds which daily flow
Over their pavements, finding ample scope
For meditation and for thought-born plan
Of active life within the destinies
Of these my fellow-townsmen. Every man
Inherits a great memory, how was won,
Hardly, the first of many victories
Over Feudality; and a command
Insep'rably goes with it hand in hand,
That, as the father strove, should strive the son.
Therefore, brave Town, say to thy best ones, "Rise,
Leav'ning the masses with your master energies."
May every effort as the spring-dew fall
On a prepared soil, and, like the ore
On which you spend your labour, may there spring
From out your social depths a noble power
To cope with and work out each worthy thing.
Sweet melody amidst the moving spheres
Breaks forth, a solemn and entrancing sound,
A harmony whereof the earth's green hills
Give but the faintest echo; yet is there
A music everywhere, and concert sweet!
All birds which sing amidst the forest deep
Till the flowers listen with unfolded bells;
All winds that murmur over summer grass,
Or curl the waves upon the pebbly shore;
Chiefly all earnest human voices rais'd
In charity and for the cause of truth,
Mingle together in one sacred chord,
And float, a grateful incense, up to God.
I said last year,
Old Christmas cometh with an open hand,
Bright holly wreath'd about his temples bland,
Icicles twisted in his curling hair
And hanging from his breast in crystals rare:
All men rejoice when Christmas draweth near.
All men rejoice! No, no, this royal guest--
This jolly fellow--hath a double face;
Ice-cold and hard as iron is his brow
When, wrapp'd in pitiless storms and vest of snow,
He hovers o'er the household of the poor
And strikes with clenched fist the fragile door.
When far away the wandering sun hath borne
His molten beams to drop on Capricorn,
There is no faggot to supply his place.
Low lie the embers in the darkening room,
The baby's feeble hands are pinch'd with cold,
The old man, sightless in the gathering gloom,
Hath sunk into a past of memories old.
Over their heads the bleak December howls
And sleety winds about the chimneys beat,
While miserable rafters scarce prevent
The oozy drops from pattering to their feet.
Wet, cold, and dark. "How long will Christmas last?"
Say little children who should love it well.
They cannot sleep at night when that great blast
Moans in its fury like a funeral bell
Through such thin walls. Old Christmas passes by,
His arms fill'd up with a luxurious store;
But, ah! of cake, and toy, and dance, and fire,
Hath nothing for the children of the poor.
Poor tiny outcasts of the rich heir's feast,
They stand with wistful eyes and hear the song
Of how, when Jesus was a little child,
His mother tended him the whole night long.
In the dim street the carol chanteth how
The three wise kings brought presents rich and rare,
While giftless they, within their untrimm'd walls,
Watch the snow falling through the twilight air,
And count the hours till bed-time--then lie down
With shivering limbs, in broken sleep, till day;
And how shall these believe that in the night
The kind Child Jesus can have pass'd that way?
For shame, old Christmas! when you visit here
And bring our little children feast and toy,
Tell them they shall not have one bit this year
Till they have fed a child who cannot buy.
"Good Christians all who in this town reside,"
For whom the season since your birth has smiled,
Besides the tracts and blankets, beef and bread,
Give something to the Christmas of the Child!
1849
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Page created 13 August 2002 and last updated
16 October 2002
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