  A wind is rustling ‘south and soft,’ Cooing a quiet country tune, The calm sea sighs, and far aloft The sails are ghostly in the moon. Unquiet ripples lisp and purr, A block there pipes and chirps i’ the sheave, The wheel-ropes jar, the reef-points stir Faintly—and it is Christmas Eve. The hushed sea seems to hold her breath, And o’er the giddy, swaying spars, Silent and excellent as Death, The dim blue skies are bright with stars. Dear God—they shone in Palestine Like this, and yon pale moon serene Looked down among the lowing kine On Mary and the Nazarene. The angels called from deep to deep, The burning heavens felt the thrill, Startling the flocks of silly sheep And lonely shepherds on the hill. To-night beneath the dripping bows Where flashing bubbles burst and throng, The bow-wash murmurs and sighs and soughs A message from the angels’ song. The moon goes nodding down the west, The drowsy helmsman strikes the bell; Rex JudÆorum natus est, I charge you, brothers, sing Nowell, Nowell, Rex JudÆorum natus est. |
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