WINTER.

This is now the winter time,

My noble gentlemen.

This is now the winter time,

My reverend clergymen ;

Christ came to save in winter time,
And not in summer's sultry prime:
And He your pattern sure must be,
When glows with red the holly tree.
This is now the winter time,

Remember, clerks all, then,
That Christ in winter came to save
Not only souls, but bodies brave.
The bread His body, and the wine
His blood. Then spread the feast divine;
This is now the winter time,

My Christian clergymen.

This is now the winter time,

My honest working men,

* Weave truth with trust," ye weavers, then
And "draw straight furrows," farming men,
And with good grace and no hard knocks-
Take justice for a Christmas box.
This is now the winter time,

Remember, workers, then,

That none should starve while others have.
That Christ in winter came to save,
And, but in no alms-taking way,

Accept your rights on New Year's day.

This is now the winter time,

My gallant working men.

GOODWYN BARMBY.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

WOULD that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites

A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving the memory help when she could weave
A crown for Hope!-I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve.
Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring,

The counter Spirit found in some gay church
Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch

In which the linnet or the thrush might sing,

Merry and loud, and safe from prying search, Strains offered only to the genial spring.

THE HOLLY TREE.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

1

O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly tree?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves,

Ordered by an intelligence so wise,

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralize:

And in this wisdom of the holly tree

Can emblems see,

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear

Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude

Reserved and rude,

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,

Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,

Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly leaves a sombre hue display,

Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,

So would I scem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

UNDER THE HOLLY BOUGH.

CHARLES MACKAY.

YE who have scorned each other,

Or injured friend or brother,
In this fast fading year;

Ye who, by word or deed,
Have made a kind heart bleed,

Come gather here.

Let sinned against, and sinning,
Forget their strife's beginning,

And join in friendship now :
Be links no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken,

Under the Holly Bough.

#

THE HOLLY BERKY.

Ye who have loved each other,
Sister and friend and brother,

In this fast fading year:
Mother and sire and child,

Young man and maiden mild,
Come gather here;

And let your hearts grow fonder,
As memory shall ponder

Each past unbroken vow.
Old loves and younger wooing

Are sweet in the renewing,

Under the Holly Bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness,
In this fast fading year;

Ye, with o'erburdened mind,
Made aliens from your kind,
Come gather here.

Let not the useless sorrow

Pursue you night and morrow.

If e'er you hoped, hope now-
Take heart;-uncloud your faces,
And join in our embraces,

Under the Holly Bough.

THE HOLLY BERRY.

THOMAS MILLER.

GONE are the summer hours,
The birds have left their bowers;

While the holly true retains his hue,

Nor changes like the flowers.