Baby Zulma’s Christmas Carol

A Lighter scarf of richer fold The morning flushed upon our sight, And Evening trimmed her lamps of gold, From deeper springs of purer light; And softer drips bedewed the lea, And whiter blossoms veiled the tree, And bluer waves danced on the sea When baby Zulma came to be! The day before, a bird had sung Strange greetings on the roof and flown; And Night’s immaculate priestess flung A diamond from her parted zone Upon the crib beside the bed, Whereunto, as the doctor said, A king or queen would soon be led By some sweet Ariel overhead. Ere yet the sun had crossed the line When we, at Aries’ double bars, Behold him, tempest-beaten, shine In stormy Libra’s triple stars: What time the hillsides shake with corn And boughs of fruitage laugh unshorn And cheery echoes wake the morn To gales of fragrance harvest-born. In storied spots of vernal flame And breezy realms of tossing shade, The tripping elves tumultuous came To join the fairy cavalcade: From blushing chambers of the rose, And bowers the lily’s buds enclose, And nooks and dells of deep repose, Where human sandal never goes, The rabble poured its motley tide: Some upon airy chariots rode, By cupids showered from side to side, And some the dragon-fly bestrode; While troops of virgins, left and right, Like microscopic trails of light, The sweeping pageant made as bright As beams a rainbow in its flight! It passed: the bloom of purple plums Was rippled by trumpets rallying long O’er beds of pinks; and dwarfish drums Struck all the insect world to song: The milkmaid caught the low refrain, The ploughman answered to her strain, And every warbler of the plain The ringing chorus chirped again! Beneath the sunset’s faded arch, It formed and filed within our porch, With not a ray to guide its march Except the twilight’s silver torch: And thus she came from clouds above, With spirits of the glen and grove, A flower of grace, a cooing dove, A shrine of prayer and star of love! A queen of hearts!—her mighty chains Are beads of coral round her strung, And, ribbon-diademed, she reigns, Commanding in an unknown tongue. The kitten spies her cunning ways, The patient cur romps in her plays, And glimpses of her earlier days Are seen in picture-books of fays. To fondle all things doth she choose, And when she gets, what some one sends, A trifling gift of tiny shoes, She kisses both as loving friends; For in her eyes this orb of care, Whose hopes are heaps of frosted hair, Is but a garland, trim and fair, Of cherubs twining in the air. O, from a soul suffused with tears Of trust thou mayst be spared the thorn Which it has felt in other years,— Across the morn our Lord was born, I waft thee blessings! At thy side May his invisible seraphs glide; And tell thee still, whate’er betide, For thee, for thine, for all, He died!