CHRISTMAS MINSTRELSY. ADDRESSED TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. THE minstrels played their Christmas tune The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings : Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand! And who but listened ?-till was paid The greeting given, the music played, Duly pronounced with lusty call, Oh, brother! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills; And it is given thee to rejoice: Though public care full often tills (Heaven only witness of the toil) A barren and ungrateful soil. Yet would that thou, with me and mine, A true revival of the light, Which Nature and these rustic powers, For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds; Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unelaborate sounds, Or they are offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor. How touching, when, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, To hear and sink again to sleep! Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire, the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence! The mutual nod,—the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; And some unbidden tears that rise For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid. Ah! not for emerald fields alone, With ambient streams more pure and bright Than fabled Cytherea's zone Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, Is to my heart of hearts endeared The ground where we were born and reared. Hail, ancient manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws; Hail, usages of pristine mould, And ye that guard them, mountains old! Bear with me, brother! quench the thought From the proud margin of the Thames, Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Moments to cast a look behind, And profit by those kindly rays Hence, while the imperial city's din Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, A pleased attention I may win To agitations less severe, William Wordsworth. MUSIC I love, but never strain Could kindle raptures so divine, So grief assuage, so conquer pain, And rouse this pensive heart of mine As that we hear on Christmas morn, Though darkness still her empire keep, And hours must pass ere morning break; From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep, That music kindly bids us wake: It calls us, with an angel's voice, To greet with joy the glorious morn, To bring the light of Heaven below; While listening to that sacred strain, In those who watched their flocks by night. With them I celebrate His birth Glory to God in highest heaven, And Satan's power is overthrown! |