Let us drink to those eyes we most dearly prize, For the girls' soft cheeks shall our peaches be, OLD CHRISTMAS. (J. BRIDGEMAN.) ONCE more the rapid, fleeting year Has brought old Christmas to the door; Come, let us treat him with such cheer When burgher grave, and belted knight, Obeyed the old, familiar sprite, And, at his bidding, banished Care That sullen, surly, melancholy wight. Let's hang from beams, all black with time, 'Neath which, as little birds with lime, Young girls are snared, "they know not how The horrid thing-they never thought It half so near-for if they had, 'Tis certain they had not been caught— OLD CHRISTMAS. On that rely--it was too bad, Upon the hearth pile up the fire, And, that it may burn clear and bright, Cast in it every base desire, All envy, hatred, vengeance, spite : Believe me, the event will show By acting in this way you'll gain For you will feel a genial glow Dance through each gladly-swelling vein, And onwards to your very heart's core go. Bring, too, the sparkling wassail bowl, That jolly Christmas holds so dear, And if 'd have it warm your you soul The mind as well as body cheer Amid the wine and spirit pour The blessings from some humble roof; A little charity is sure To call them forth in sober truth, They'll give the draught one matchless flavour more. And you, fair Sovereign of this isle, Who love to deck the Christmas tree, So that the massy, regal pile Resound with mirth and jollity, Remember that the stem with new Strength thrives, if pruned with careful hand; Then trim your Christmas sapling, too, And to the poor throughout the land Send of the shoots thus lopped away a few. A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee, As the long moss upon the apple tree; Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose; Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way, Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth, Or circled by them, as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright. ROBERT SOUTHEY. DEAR boy, throw that icicle down, And sweep this deep snow from the door; Old Winter comes on with a frown A terrible frown for the poor. In a season so rude and forlorn, How can age, how can infancy, bear The silent neglect and the scorn Of those who have plenty to spare? WINTER. Fresh broached is my cask of old ale, Well timed now the frost is set in ; Here's Job come to tell us a tale, We'll make him at home to a pin. While my wife and I bask o'er the fire, The roll of the seasons will prove, That time may diminish desire, But cannot extinguish true love. O the pleasures of neighbourly chat, While the bellows blow bass to the sound. Abundance was never my lot: But out of the trifle that 's giv'n, That no curse may alight on my cot, I'll distribute the bounty of Heav'n. But if I add nought to my store, ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. THERE's not a flower upon the hill, There's not a leaf upon the tree; The summer bird hath left its bough, Bright child of sunshine, singing now In spicy lands beyond the sea. There's silence in the harvest field; And blackness in the mountain glen, And stillness round the homes of men. The old tree hath an older look; The lonesome place is yet more dreary; And summer paths are wet and weary. The drooping year is in the wane, No longer floats the thistle down; The crimson heath is wan and sere; And the broad fern is rent and brown. 带 |