The shepherds heard it overhead—
The joyful angels raised it then:
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men.
My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth,
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,
Be this, good friends, our carol still-
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.
996. THE KING OF BRENTFORD
THERE was a King in Brentford, of whom no legends tell,
But who, without his glory,-could eat and sleep right well.
His Polly's cotton nightcap,-it was his crown of state,
He slept of evenings early,—and rose of mornings late.
All in a fine mud palace,—each day he took four meals,
And for a guard of honour,—a dog ran at his heels.
Sometimes to view his kingdoms,-rode forth this monarch good.
And then a prancing jackass-he royally bestrode.
There were no costly habits-with which this King was cursed,
Except (and where's the harm on't ?)—a somewhat lively thirst;
But people must pay taxes,—and Kings must have their sport;
So out of every gallon-his Grace he took a quart.
He pleased the ladies round him,-with manners soft and bland;
With reason good, they named him,-the father of his land.
Each year his mighty armies-marched forth in gallant show;
Their enemies were targets, their bullets they were tow.
He vexed no quiet neighbour,—no useless conquest made,
But by the laws of pleasure, his peaceful realm he swayed.
And in the years he reignèd,—through all this country wide,
There was no cause for weeping,- -save when the good man died.
The faithful men of Brentford,-do still their King deplore,
His portrait yet is swinging,-beside an alehouse door.
And topers, tender-hearted,-regard his honest phiz,
And envy times departed,-that knew a reign like his.
997. BOUILLABAISSE
THIS Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier and Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
W. M. THACKERAY (The Ballad of Bouillabaisse).
998. THE SORROWS OF WERTHER
WERTHER had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread-and-butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread-and-butter.
A PLEASING LAND OF DROWSYHED
A PLEASING land of drowsyhed it was:
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh;
But whate'er smacked of noyance, or unrest,
Was far far off expelled from this delicious nest.
J. THOMSON (The Castle of Indolence).
1000. THE SNOW-STORM
THE keener tempests come: and, fuming dun
From all the livid east or piercing north,
Thick clouds ascend, in whose capacious womb
A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed.
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along,
And the sky saddens with the gathered storm.
Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,
At first thin-wavering; till at last the flakes
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherished fields
Put on their winter-robe of purest white.
'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then brisk alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is-
Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs
Attract his slender feet.
J. THOMSON (The Seasons).
1001. RULE BRITANNIA
WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain-
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.'
The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
But work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Blest isle with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
'Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.'
AS WE RUSH IN THE TRAIN
As we rush, as we rush in the Train,
The trees and the houses go wheeling back,
But the starry heavens above the plain
Come flying on our track.
Oh the beautiful stars in the sky,
The silver doves of the forest of Night, Over the dull earth swarm and fly, Companions of our flight.
We will rush ever on without fear;
Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet! For we carry the Heavens with us, dear, While the earth slips from our feet!
1003. FROM ON NEWS' WHAT sacred instinct did inspire
My soul in childhood with a hope so strong?
What secret force moved my desire
To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young?
Felicity I knew
Was out of view,
And being here alone,
I saw that happiness was gone
From me! For this
I thirsted absent bliss,
And thought that sure beyond the seas,
Or else in something near at hand
I knew not yet (since naught did please
I knew) my bliss did stand.
But little did the infant dream
That all the treasures of the world were by:
And that himself was so the cream
And crown of all which round about did lie.
Yet thus it was: The gem,
The diadem,
The ring enclosing all
That stood upon this earthly ball;
The Heavenly Eye
Much wider than the sky,
Wherein they all included were ;
The glorious Soul, that was the King
Made to possess them, did appear
A small and little thing!
FROM THE KINGDOM OF GOD'
I SAY to thee, do thou repeat
To the first man thou mayest meet
In lane, highway, or open street-
That he and we and all men move
Under a canopy of love,
As broad as the blue sky above;
That doubt and trouble, fear and pain
And anguish, all are shadows vain,
That death itself shall not remain;
That weary deserts we may tread,
A dreary labyrinth may thread,
Through dark ways underground be led;
Yet, if we will one Guide obey,
The dreariest path, the darkest way
Shall issue out in heavenly day;
And we, on divers shores now cast,
Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,
All in our Father's house at last.
1005. SOME MURMUR, WHEN THEIR SKY IS CLEAR
SOME murmur, when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are filled
If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy gild
The darkness of their night.
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