133. EVE'S CONJUGAL LOVE.

[From PARADISE LOST.]

Y author and disposer, what thou bidd'st,

My

God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more
Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise.
With thee conversing, I forget all time;
All seasons, and their change, all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the Sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew: fragrant the fertile Earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; then silent Night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair Moon,
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of Morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising Sun
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers:
Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night,
With this her solemn bird; nor walk by Moon,
Or glittering star-light, without thee, is sweet.

MILTON.

Hut let it whistle as it will,

[EAP on more wood! the wind is chill;

We'll keep our Christmas merry still!
Each age has deem'd the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer;
E'en 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;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes deck'd the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dress'd steer,
Caroused in seas of sable beer,

While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnaw'd rib, and marrow-bone;
Or listen'd all, in grim delight,

While Scalds yell'd out the joys of fight.
Then forth in frenzy would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recal

The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.

And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had roll'd, And brought blithe Christmas back again With all his hospitable train.

Domestic and religious rite

Gave honour to the holy night:

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 donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go
To gather in the mistletoe.

Then open'd wide the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doff'd her 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 hail'd with uncontroll'd delight
And general voice the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving-man;

Then the grim boar's-head frown'd on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell,

How, when, and where, the monster fell;

What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.

The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribands, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roar'd with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made:
But oh! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports agen !
"Twas Christmas broach'd the merriest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer

The poor man's heart through half the year!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

135. REFLECTIONS OF KING HEZEKIAH IN HIS SICKNESS.

WHAT! and no more? Is this my soul, said I,

My whole of being? must I surely die?

Be robb'd at once of health, of strength, of time,
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime?
Shall I no more behold the face of morn,

The cheerful daylight, and the spring's return?
Must I the festive bower, the banquet leave,
For the dull chambers of the darksome grave?
Have I consider'd what it is to die?
In native dust with kindred worms to lie,-
To sleep in cheerless cold neglect, to rot,
My body loathed, my very name forgot,-
Nor one of all those parasites, who bend
The supple knee, their monarch to attend!
What not one friend? No, not a hireling slave
Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave.
Where's he, who lately claim'd the name of great,
Whose eye was terror and whose frown was fate,
Who awed a hundred nations from the throne?
See where he lies-dumb, friendless, and alone!
Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth?
Which is the royal particle of earth?

Where are the marks, the princely ensigns where?
Which is the slave, and which great David's heir?
Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known

From his who lately sat on Israel's throne.

MRS. HANNAH MORE.