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CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR.

“Half musical, half melancholy,"
Like childish smiles that still are holy,

A masquer's face dimmed with a tear,
For Christmas comes but once a year.

The bells which usher in that morn,

Have ever drawn my mind away
To Bethlehëm, where Christ was born,

And the low stable where He lay,
In which the large-eyed oxen fed ;
To Mary bowing low her head,

And looking down with love sincere,
Such thoughts bring Christmas once a year.

At early day the youthful voice,

IIeard singing on from door to door,
Makes the responding heart rejoice,
To know the children of the

poor
For once are happy all day long;
We smile and listen to the song,

The burthen still remote or near,
* Old Christmas comes but once a year.”

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Upon a gayer happier scene,

Never did holly berries peer,
Or ivy throw its trailling green,

On brighter forms than there are here,
Nor Christmas in his old arm-chair
Smile upon lips and brows more fair,

Then let us sing amid our chcer,
Old Christmas still comes once a year.

(ELIZA COOK.)

When the merry spring-time weaves
Its peeping bloom and dewy leaves;
When the primrose opes its eye,

,
And the young moth flutters by;
When the plaintive turtle-dove

Pours its notes of peace and love;
And the clear sun flings its glory bright and wide-

Yet
my

soul will own
More joy in winter's frown,
And wake with warmer flush at Christmas tide.

The summer beams

may

shine
On the rich and curling vine,
And the noontide rays light up
The tulip's dazzling cup;
But the pearly mistletoe,

And the holly berries' glow,
Are not even by the boasted rose outvicd;

For the happy hearts beneath
The green and coral wreath
the garlands that are twined at Christmas tide.

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Let the autumn days produce
Yellow corn and purple juice,
And Nature's feast be spread
In the fruitage ripe and red ;
'Tis grateful to behold

Gushing grapes, and fields of gold,
When cheeks are browned, and red lips deeper dyed ;

But give, oh! give to me,

The winter night of glee,
The mirthi and plenty seen at Christmas tide.

CHRISTMAS TIDE.

The northern gust may howl,
The rolling storm-cloud scowl,
King Frost may make a slave
Of the river's rapid wave;
The snow-drift choke the path,

Or the hail-shower spend its wrath,
But the sternest blast right bravely is defied,

While limbs and spirits bound

To the merry minstrel sound,
And social wood-fires blaze at Christmas tide.

The song, the laugh, the shout,
Shall mock the storm without;
And sparkling wine-foam rise
'Neath still more sparkling eyes ;
The forms that scarcely meet

Then hand to hand shall greet,
And soul pledge soul that leagues too long divide.

Mirth, friendship, love, and light,

Shall crown the winter night,
And every glad voice welcome Christmas tide

But while joy's echo falls
In gay and plenteous halls,
Let the poor and lowly share
The warmth, the sports, the fare;
For the one of humble lot

Must not shiver in his cot,
But claim a bounteous meed from wealth and pride.

Shed kindly blessings round,

Till no aching heart be found,
And then all hail to merry Christmas tide!

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CHRISTMAS IS COME.

(ALBERT SMITH.)

The old north breeze through the skeleton trees

Is chanting the year out drearily;
But loud let it blow, for at home we know

That the dry logs crackle cheerily;
And the frozen ground is in fetters bound;

But pile up the wood, we can burn it;
For Christmas is come, and in every home
To summer our hearts can turn it.

Wassail! wassail!
IIere's happiness to all, abroad and at home;

Wassail! wassail!
Ilere's happiness to all, for Christmas is come.

And far and near, o'er landscape drear,

From casements brightly streaming,
With cheerful glow on the fallen snow

The ruddy light is gleaming;
The wind may shout as it likes without,

It may bluster, but never can harm us;
For a merrier din shall resound within,
And our Christmas feelings warm is.

Wassail! wassail! &c.

The flowers are torpid in their beds,

Till spring's first sunbeam sleeping;
Not e’en the snowdrops' pointed heads

Above the earth are peeping ;
But groves remain on each frosted pane

Of feathery trees and bowers;
And fairer far we'll maintain they are
Than summer's gaudiest flowers.

Wassail! wassail! &c.

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