And yet how few of all the throngs
That woke this Christmas morn,
And joined to-day in rapturous songs
That Christ the Lord was born,—
Have ever witnessed in their hearts
The birth that's from above—
The real advent of the Lord,
Of true, unselfish love;—
A love that finds its chief delight
In doing, serving, blessing—
Like His whose greatest glory is
In giving, not possessing.
To conclude the extract from Tennyson quoted in the Chicago Advance's Notice of Garfield , September 22 , 1881.
And higher still 'bove earthly things,
As rise the stars when day is gone
And damps and chills of night come on,
He rises as on angel's wings.
For, prostrate by that demon's gun,
He lay for weeks without complaint,
In pain, but patient as a saint,
With courage, cheerfulness, and trust—
The sure inheritance of the just—
And meekly prayed, "God's will be done."
And so by suffering weeks eleven,
He wins the noblest martyr's crown,
Then lays his life supremely down,
But lifts the nation nearer heaven.
