I.

ERE the Night cometh! On how many graves 
Rests, at this hour, their first cold winter's snow! 
Wild o'er the earth the sleety tempest raves; 
Silent, our Lost Ones slumber on below; 
Never to share again the genial glow 
Of Christmas gladness round the circled hearth; 
Never returning festivals to know, 
Or holidays that mark some loved one's birth, 
Or children's joyous songs, and loud delighted mirth. 
II.

The frozen tombs are sheeted with one pall,-- 
One shroud for every churchyard, crisp and bright,-- 
One foldless mantle, softly covering all 
With its unwrinkled width of spotless white. 
There, through the grey dim day and starlit night, 
It rests, on rich and poor, and young and old,-- 
Veiling dear eyes,--whose warm homne-cheering light 
Our pining hearts can never more behold,-- 
With an unlifting veil,--that falleth blank and cold. 
III.

The Spring shall melt that snow,--but kindly eyes 
Return not with the Sun's returning powers,-- 
Nor to the clay-cold cheek, that buried lies, 
The living blooms that flush perennial flowers,-- 
Nor, with the song-birds, vocal in the bowers, 
The sweet familiar tones! In silence drear 
We pass our days,--and oft in midnight hours 
Call madly on their names who cannot hear,-- 
Names graven on the tombs of the departed year! 
IV.

There lies the tender Mother, in whose heart 
So many claimed an interest and a share! 
Humbly and piously she did her part 
In every task of love and household care: 
And mournfully, with sad abstracted air, 
The Father-Widower, on his Christmas Eve, 
Strokes down his youngest child's long silken hair, 
And, as the gathering sobs his bosom heave, 
Goes from that orphaned group, unseen to weep and grieve. 
V.

Feeling his loneliness the more this day 
Because SHE kept it with such gentle joy, 
Scarce can he brook to see his children play, 
Remembering how her love it did employ 
To choose each glittering gift and welcome toy: 
His little timid girl, so slight of limb,-- 
His fearless, glorious, merry-hearted boy,-- 
They coax him to their sports,--nor know how dim 
The Christmas taper's light must burn henceforth for him! 
VI.

Ah! when these two are wrapt in peaceful sleep, 
His worn eyes on the sinking embers set, 
A Vigil to her Memory shall keep! 
Her bridal blush when first his love she met,-- 
Her dying words of meek and fond regret,-- 
Her tearful thanks for all his kindness past,-- 
These shall return to him,--while linger yet 
The last days of the year,--that year the last 
Upon whose circling hours her sunny smile was cast! 
VII.

Life's Dial now shows blank, for want of HER: 
There shall be holiday and festival, 
But each his mourning heart shall only stir 
With repetitions of her funeral: 
Quenched is the happy light that used to fall 
On common things, and bid them lustre borrow: 
No more the daily air grows musical, 
Echoing her soft good night and glad good morrow, 
Under the snow she lies,--and he must grieve down sorrow! 
VIII.

And learn how Death can hallow trivial things; 
How the eyes fill with melancholy tears 
When some chance voice a common ballad sings 
The Loved sang too, in well-remembered years,-- 
How strangely blank the beaten track appears 
Which led them to the threshold of our door,-- 
And how old books some pencilled word endears; 
Faint tracery, where our dreaming hearts explore 
Their vanished thoughts whose souls commune with us no more! 
IX.

Under the snow she lies! And there lies too 
The young fair blossom, neither Wife nor Bride; 
Whose Child-like beauty no man yet might woo, 
Dwelling in shadow by her parent's side 
Like a fresh rosebud, which the green leaves hide. 
Calm as the light that fades along the West, 
When not a ripple stirs the azure tide, 
She sank to Death: and Heaven knows which is best, 
The Matron's task fulfilled, or Virgin's spotless rest. 
X.

A quiet rest it is: though o'er that form 
We wept, because our human love was weak! 
Our Dove's white wings are folded from the storm,-- 
Tears cannot stain those eyelids pure and meek,-- 
And pale for ever is the marble cheek 
Where, in her life, the shy quick-gushing blood 
Was wont with roseate eloquence to speak; 
Ebbing and flowing with each varying mood 
Of her young timid heart, so innocently good! 
XI.

And, near her, sleeps the old grey-headed Sire, 
Whose faded eyes, in dying prayer uplifted, 
Taught them the TRUTH who saw him thus expire, 
(Although not eloquent or greatly gifted) 
Because they saw the winnowing fan that sifted 
Chaff from the grain, disturbed not his high Trust: 
In the dark storm, Hope's anchor never drifted, 
The dread funereal sentence, 'Dust to D