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An old worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Joy, Hate and Fear, each one essayed,
To play. But each in turn had found
No sweet responsiveness of sound
Then Love the Master-Player came
With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
The Harp he took all undismayed,
Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
And brought forth music sweet and strong.
This poem is in the public domain.
Ring out, ye bells! All Nature swells With gladness at the wondrous story,— The world was lorn, But Christ is born To change our sadness into glory. Sing, earthlings, sing! To-night a King Hath come from heaven's high throne to bless us. The outstretched hand O'er all the land Is raised in pity to caress us. Come at his call; Be joyful all; Away with mourning and with sadness! The heavenly choir With holy fire Their voices raise in songs of gladness. The darkness breaks And Dawn awakes, Her cheeks suffused with youthful blushes. The rocks a
Slow moves the pageant of a climbing race;
Their footsteps drag far, far below the height,
And, unprevailing by their utmost might,
Seem faltering downward from each hard won place.
No strange, swift-sprung exception we; we trace
A devious way thro’ dim, uncertain light,—
Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sight
Fling out your banners, your honors be bringing,
Raise to the ether your paeans of praise.
Strike every chord and let music be ringing!
Celebrate freely this day of all days.