H

CHRISTMAS.

EAP on more wood!

the wind is chill;

But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our Christmas merry still;
Each age has deem'd the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer;
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain ;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew.

England was merry England when

Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale ;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer

The poor man's heart through half the year.
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung
That only night in all the year
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed in holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go
To gather in the mistletoe;
Then opened wide the baron's hall.
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all.
Power laid his rod of rule aside,

And Ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hailed with uncontrolled delight
And general voice the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

66

Marmion."

- Walter Scott.

TH

CHRISTMAS.

HE time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid; the night is still;

The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices in four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door

.

Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes of the wind,

That now dilate, and now decrease;
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

-Alfred Tennyson.

THE HOLLY.

HE holly! the holly! oh, twine it with

With his garments so somber and long;

It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,

And its leaves of burnished green,

When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,

And not even a daisy is seen.

Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,

That hangs over peasant and king;

While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

The gale may whistle, the frost may come

To fetter the gurgling rill;

The woods may be bare, and warblers dumb,
But holly is beautiful still.

In the revel and light of princely halls
The bright holly branch is found;
And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls,
While the brimming horn goes round.
Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,
That hangs over peasant and king;

While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,
To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

The ivy lives long, but its home must be
Where graves and ruins are spread;
There's beauty about the cypress-tree,
But it flourishes near the dead;
The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe,
But it tells of tears and blood;
I sing the holly, and who can breathe

Aught of that, that is not good?

Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,

That hangs over peasant and king;

While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

- Eliza Cook.

TO A PINE-TREE.

AR up on Katahdin thou towerest,

FA

Purple-blue with the distance and vast; Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest, That hangs poised on a lull in the blast, To its fall leaning awful.

In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened,
Thou singest and tossest thy branches;
Thy heart with the terror is gladdened,
Thou forebodest the dread avalanches,

When whole mountains swoop valeward.

In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys With thine arms, as if blessings imploring Like an old king led forth from his palace, When his people to battle are pouring From the city beneath him.

To the lumberer asleep 'neath thy glooming Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion, Till he longs to be swung mid their booming In the tents of the Arabs of ocean,

Whose finned isles are their cattle.

For the gale snatches thee for his lyre,
With mad hand crashing melody frantic,
While he pours forth his mighty desire
To leap down on the eager Atlantic,

Whose arms stretch to his playmate.

The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches, Preying thence on the continent under;

Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches,
There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder,
Growling low with impatience.

Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory,
Lusty father of Titans past number!
The snowflakes alone make thee hoary,
Nestling close to thy branches in slumber,
And thee mantling with silence.

Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter,
Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices,
Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter,
And then plunge down the muffled abysses
In the quiet of midnight.

Thou alone know'st the glory of summer,
Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest,
On thy subjects that send a proud murmur
Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest
From thy bleak throne to heaven.

-James Russell Lowell.

THE

THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS-TREE.

HE Christmas-day was coming, the Christmas-eve drew near;

The fir-trees they were talking low, at midnight cold and

clear,

And this was what the fir-trees said, all in the pale moon

light,

"Now, which of us shall chosen be to grace the Holy Night'?"