Then, that distant-burning glory, ’Mid a gorgeousness of light! The long vista of Archangels Could scarce chasten to her sight. There sat One; and her heart told her ’Twas the same, who, for our sin, Was once born a little baby “In the stable of an inn.” There was music—oh, such music!— They were trying the old strains That a certain group of shepherds Heard on old Judea’s plains; But, when that divinest chorus To a softened trembling fell, Love’s true ear discerned the voices That on earth she loved so well. At a tiny grotto’s entrance A fair child her eyes behold, With his ivory shoulders hidden ’Neath his curls of living gold; And he asks them, “Is she coming?” But ere any one can speak, The white arms of her twin brother Are once more about her neck. Then they all come round her greeting; But she might have well denied That her beautiful young sister Is the poor pale child that died; And the careful look hath vanished From her father’s tearless face, And she does not know her mother Till she feels the old embrace. Oh, from that ecstatic dreaming Must she ever wake again, To the cold and cheerless contrast—— To a life of lonely pain? But her Maker’s sternest servant To her side on tiptoe stept; Told his message in a whisper,—— And she stirred not as she slept! Now the Christmas morn was breaking With a dim, uncertain hue, And the chilling breeze of morning Came the broken window through; And the hair upon her forehead, Was it lifted by the blast, Or the brushing wings of Seraphs, With their burden as they pass’d? All the festive bells were chiming To the myriad hearts below; But that deep sleep still hung heavy On the sleeper’s thoughtful brow. To her quiet face the dream-light Had a lingering glory given; But the child _herself_ was keeping Her Christmas-day in Heaven! WHAT CHRISTMAS IS IN THE COMPANY OF JOHN DOE. BY CHARLES DICKENS.