Reely's Poetry Blog

by EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON (1845-1921)

'TWAS not when the haughty Spaniards came,
With blazoned banner and martial din,
Planting the cross in the dear Christ's name,
But leaving a trail of shame and sin;
'Twas not when the Pilgrim Fathers sung
Their solemn hymns on the sombre shore — 
Ah! never a Christmas bell they rung,
Never a holly wreath they wore.

It was many and many a year ere then,
When the seas were plowed by the Vikings brave,
When the Norse chief sailed with his fearless men,
North and south o'er the raging wave. 
When down from the realm of ice and snow, 
Thorfin the sturdy set his sail ;— 
But the world had forgotten it long ago, 
Had not the Sagas told the tale.

"'Tis a marvelous story," Gudrida said,
As she sat in state in her husband's hall,
And laid her hand on the golden head
Of a beautiful lad, blue-eyed and tall.
"'Tis a marvelous tale — but I see it yet,
That dim far coast where our baby lay,
And we said, ' In our joy shall we forget
Our Saviour's birth on this holy day ?'"

At her side the stalwart Thorfin stood,
And gazed as she spoke with a loving pride,
On the fair face under the jeweled hood
Of her who followed —brave-hearted bride —
When young and comely he came to woo,
The proudest of all the Norseland band,
And together they sailed the trackless blue,
In search of a wonderful, unknown land.

Once more in the shelter of Iceland's Isle,
Where song and story abide alway, 
In the warmth of fortune's kindliest smile, 
They dwell; and the chieftain answered, "Yea!
'Tis a marvelous story! Hist! how we sped
Through the gulf where the dizzying icebergs swim!
Till, one by one, like wraiths of the dead, 
They sank in the far horizon's rim.

Then we skirted along gray barren shores,
And hill-slopes green to their very feet,
Nor slackened the sails, nor eased the oars,
Till the winds blew soft and warm and sweet.
Still south and west, till our dragon prow
Found rest in the arms of a sheltered vale;
I fancy I feel the soft breeze now!
Thou'rt right, sweet wife, a wondrous tale!"

"Nay! God be thanked for his gracious ways
Now and forever," Gudrida cried; 
"But for aye, in my heart, the day of days
Is that which we kept at the white Yule-tide. 
The seasons had come and the seasons sped,
With the spring-time green and the autumn flame,
And ever the luscious fruits grew red,
And the deer from the endless forests came.

"And the days were a dream in that sunnier clime,
Where short nights herald the early morn;
Till there in the calm of the Christmas time,
In that nameless country our child was born.
And we said, 'In our joy shall we e'er forget
The Christ and His love on His own birth-night?
Ho! bring the holly with hoar-frost wet,
And set the torches of pine alight!'

'And thou didst place on the infant's breast
The cross thy fathers from Norway bore;
And kindled the tapers the priest had blest,
Last and most precious of all our store.
That night in my dreams the Maid divine,
Most holy of mothers, appeared to me,
Saying, 'Gudrida, for thee and thine
Are thy father's halls on the Northern Sea.

" Not yet is this land thy people's home,
But as thou hast honored this day my Son,
Thou shalt tell from the North to the gates of Rome,
Of the shores that wait for the Holy One' !" — 
"And thou shalt, by my sword, sweet wife and fair!
Thou shalt journey to Rome," the Northman said;
But 'twas Snorri, the lad, who led her there,
When Thorfin the sturdy lay cold and dead.

Oh! 'twas hundreds and hundreds of years ago,
That the sweet Norsewoman of Christmas sung;
While to-day, in their arches, to and fro,
From east to west are the Christ-bells rung.
And ours is the land of which she told
To Pope and Prince in her journey long; — 
But the world had forgotten the story old,
Had not the Sagas kept the song.