CHRISTMAS. HEAP on more wood! — the wind is chill ; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still; England was merry England when The poor man's heart through half the year. And Ceremony doffed his pride. The vulgar game of "post and pair." Marmion." CHRISTMAS. - Walter Scott. THE HE time draws near the birth of Christ; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices in four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Were shut between me and the sound: Each voice four changes of the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease; Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. – Alfred Tennyson. THE HOLLY. HE holly! the holly! oh, twine it with. bay Come give the holly a song; For it helps to drive stern winter away, With his garments so somber and long; It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves of burnished green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even a daisy is seen. Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly, That hangs over peasant and king; While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing. The gale may whistle, the frost may come To fetter the gurgling rill; The woods may be bare, and warblers dumb, In the revel and light of princely halls And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls, That hangs over peasant and king ; While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, The ivy lives long, but its home must be I sing the holly, and who can breathe Aught of that, that is not good? Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly, That hangs over peasant and king; While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing. - Eliza Cook. TO A PINE-TREE. `AR up on Katahdin thou towerest, FA Purple-blue with the distance and vast; Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest, That hangs poised on a lull in the blast, To its fall leaning awful. In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened, When whole mountains swoop valeward. In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys With thine arms, as if blessings imploring Like an old king led forth from his palace, When his people to battle are pouring From the city beneath him. To the lumberer asleep 'neath thy glooming Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion, Till he longs to be swung mid their booming In the tents of the Arabs of ocean, Whose finned isles are their cattle. For the gale snatches thee for his lyre, Whose arms stretch to his playmate. The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches, Preying thence on the continent under; Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches, Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory, Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter, Thou alone know'st the glory of summer, -James Russell Lowell. THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS-TREE. HE Christmas-day was coming, the Christmas-eve drew near; THE The fir-trees they were talking low, at midnight cold and clear, And this was what the fir-trees said, all in the pale moon light, "Now, which of us shall chosen be to grace the Holy Night'?" |