'Twas evening still, and in the west A flush of glowing crimson lay; I saw the morrow there, and blest That promise of a glorious day. The waters, in their glassy sleep, Shone with the hues that tinged the sky, And rugged cliff and barren steep Gleamed with the brightness from on high. And one was there whose journey lay Into the slowly-gathering night; With steady step he held his way, O'er shadowy vale and gleaming height. I marked his firm though weary tread, The lifted eye and brow serene; And saw no shade of doubt or dread Pass o'er that traveller's placid mien. And others came, their journey o'er, And bade good-night, with words of cheer: "To-morrow we shall meet once more; 'Tis but the night that parts us here." "And I," he said, "shall sleep ere long; These fading gleams will soon be gone; Shall sleep to rise refreshed and strong In the bright day that yet will dawn." I heard; I watched him as he went, A lessening form, until the light Of evening from the firmament Had passed, and he was lost to sight. CHRISTMAS IN 1875. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A SPANIARD. No trumpet-blast profaned The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born; No bloody streamlet stained Earth's silver rivers on that sacred morn; But, o'er the peaceful plain, The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded wain. The soldier had laid by The sword and stripped the corselet from his breast, And hung his helm on high-- The sparrow's winter home and summer nest; And, with the same strong hand That flung the barbèd spear, he tilled the land. Oh, time for which we yearn; Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold! Season of peace, return, Like a late summer when the year grows old, When the sweet sunny days Steeped mead and mountain-side in golden haze. For now two rival kings Flaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hostile flags, And every sunrise brings The hovering vulture from his mountain-crags To where the battle-plain Is strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain. Christ is not come, while yet O'er half the earth the threat of battle lowers, And our own fields are wet, Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers-- The life-blood of the slain, Poured out where thousands die that one may reign. Soon, over half the earth, In every temple crowds shall kneel again To celebrate His birth Who brought the message of good-will to men, And bursts of joyous song Shall shake the roof above the prostrate throng. Christ is not come, while there The men of blood whose crimes affront the skies Kneel down in act of prayer, Amid the joyous strains, and when they rise Go forth, with sword and flame, To waste the land in His most holy name.