One of the finest carols written of late years is Miss Louise Imogen Guiney's _Tryste Noel_. It is deliberately archaic, and (for reasons hinted at above) I take deliberate archaism to be about the worst fault a modern carol-writer can commit. Also it lacks the fine simplicity of Christina Rossetti's _In the bleak midwinter_. I ought to dislike it, too, for its sophisticated close. Yet its curious rhythm and curious words haunt me in spite of all prejudice:-- "The Ox he openeth wide the Doore And from the Snowe he calls her inne; And he hath seen her smile therefore, Our Ladye without sinne. Now soone from Sleepe A Starre shall leap, And soone arrive both King and Hinde: _Amen, Amen_; But O the Place cou'd I but finde! "The Ox hath husht his Voyce and bent Trewe eye of Pity ore the Mow; And on his lovelie Neck, forspent, The Blessed lays her Browe. Around her feet Full Warme and Sweete His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell; _Amen, Amen_; But sore am I with vaine Travel! "The Ox is Host in Juda's stall, And Host of more than onely one, For close she gathereth withal Our Lorde, her little Sonne. Glad Hinde and King Their Gyfte may bring, But wou'd to-night my Teares were there; _Amen, Amen_; Between her Bosom and His hayre!" The days are short. I return from this Christmas ramble and find it high time to light the lamp and pull the curtains over my Cornish Window. "The days are sad--it is the Holy tide: The Winter morn is short, the Night is long; So let the lifeless Hours be glorified With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song: And through the sunset of this purple cup They will resume the roses of their prime, And the old Dead will hear us and wake up, Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!" Friends dead and friends afar--I remember you at this season, here with the log on the hearth, the holly around the picture frames and the wine at my elbow. One glass in especial to you, my old friend in the far north!-- CHRISTMAS EVE "Friend, old friend in the manse by the fireside sitting, Hour by hour while the grey ash drips from the log. You with a book on your knee, your wife with her knitting, Silent both, and between you, silent, the dog-- "Silent here in the south sit I, and, leaning, One sits watching the fire, with chin upon hand, Gazes deep in its heart--but ah! its meaning Rather I read in the shadows and understand. "Dear, kind, she is; and daily dearer, kinder, Love shuts the door on the lamp and our two selves: Not my stirring awakened the flame that behind her Lit up a name in the leathern dusk of the shelves.