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And when the snow is on the ground, and biting winds
blow cold, To sit beside the glad fireside, where social tales are
told; To feel the blessed influence of Love's and Friendship's
reign, When those that long have parted been are reconciled
Oh! yes, I do love Christmas, for nothing seems too high, And nothing seems too lowly for the love-glance of his
eye; A true republican is he, the friend of equal right, Who advocates fraternity, and propagates delight: And for the aged and the poor, how earnestly he pleads, Whilst every moment of his reign is fraught with kindly
Come hang then up the mistletoe (true olive branch), that
peace May bless our paths with pleasantness, and make our joys
increase; And let us too, like Christmas, come, the suffering world to
cheer, To help the poor disconsolate, to wipe the mourner's tear; Yes, let us each one make a vow, to do whate'er we can To solace in adversity the sufferings of man.
By R. Burton; extracted from his famous Anatomy of Melancholy.
When I goe musing all alone,
All my joyes to this are folly;
Nought so sweet as Melancholy!
When to myself I act and smile,
All other joys to this are folly;
Nought so sweet as Melancholy!
Methinkes I hear, methinkes I see,
Methinkes I heare, methinkes I see,
All my griefes to this are folly;
Nought so damnde as Melancholy!
When maidens such as Hester die,
With vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead,
And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step did indicate
Of pride and joy, no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit.
I know not by what name beside
She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Nature had bless'd her.
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind—
Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour—gone before
Some summer morning.
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
A sweet forewarning.
By W. M. Pbaed.
in this form.
One of the graceful poems which be composed
On the casement frame the wind beat high,
I sat and sang beside his bed;—
Yet did I scare his slumber;
And telling out their number.
Was it my second's ceaseless tone?
Sir Everard did not fear my first;
He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst
In many a field and flood;
Come, dabbled o'er with blood.
Sir Everard kneel'd, and strove to pray,
Till terror check'd his prayer;
Sir Everard fainted there.
THE GIFT OF ART.
From Mrs. Bnowning's Aurora Leigh.
Long green days, Worn bare of grass and sunshine,—long calm nights, From which the silken sleeps were fretted out,— Be witness for me, with no amateur's Irreverent haste and busy idleness I've set myself to art! What then? what's done? What's done, at last?
Behold, at last, a book, If life-blood's necessary,—which it is, (By that blue vein athrob on Mahomet's brow, Each prophet-poet's book must show man's blood!) If life blood's fertilising, I wrung mine On every leaf of this,—unless the drops Slid heavily on one side and left it dry. That chances often : many a fervid man Writes books as cold and flat as grave-yard stones
From which the lichen's scraped ; and if St. Preux
THERE IS BEAUTY. From Hours with the Muset, by John Ckitchley Pkince.
There is beauty o'er all this delectable world,
Which wakes at the first golden touch of the light; There is beauty when morn hath her banner unfurl'd,
Or stars twinkle out from the depths of the night; There is beauty on ocean's vast verdureless plains,
Though lash'd into fury or lull'd into calm; There is beauty on land and its countless domains—
Its corn-fields of plenty—its meadows of balm :— Oh, God of Creation! these sights are of Thee, Thou surely hast made them for none but the free!