OLD CHRISTMAS. But groves remain on each frosted pane And fairer far we 'll maintain they are Than summer's gaudiest flowers. Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home; Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come. Let us drink to those eyes we most dearly prize, For the girls' soft cheeks shall our peaches be, Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home; Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come. OLD CHRISTMAS. J. BRIDGEMAN. NCE more the rapid, flecting year Has brought old Christmas to the door; Come, let us treat him with such cheer And cottage maid, and lady fair, 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, "T is 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 you'd have it warm your 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; Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. 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, And what the great orators say; I'm happier than many a king, While the bellows blow bass to the sound. Abundance was never my lot: But out of the trifle that 's giv'n, I'll distribute the bounty of Heav'n. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. HERE'S not a flower upon the hill, |