In The Yule-Log Glow, Vol. IV | Page 6

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
Respect to every inmate's claim,

The greeting given, the music played
In honor of each household
name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And a merry Christmas
wished to all.
O 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,
Hadst heard this
never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of
the light
Which nature, and these rustic powers,
In simple
childhood, spread through ours!
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 guard the lowliest of
the poor.
How touching, when at midnight sweep
Snow-muffled winds, and all
is dark,
To hear--and sink again in 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 unhidden 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
That slights this passion
or condemns;
If thee fond fancy ever brought
From the proud
margin of the Thames,
And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To
humble streams and greener bowers.

Yes, they can make, who fail to find
Short leisure even in busiest
days,
Moments to cast a look behind,
And profit by those kindly
rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off
past reveal.
Hence, while the imperial city's din
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,

A pleased attention I may win
To agitations less severe,
That
neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy!
_William Wordsworth._
THE OLD, OLD STORY.
Listen, Lordings, unto me, a tale I will you tell,
Which, as on this
night of glee, in David's town befell.
Joseph came from Nazareth,
with Mary that sweet maid;
Weary were they, nigh to death; and for a
lodging pray'd. Sing high, sing high, sing low, sing low,
Sing high,
sing low, sing to and fro,
Go tell it out with speed,
Cry out and shout all round about,
That
Christ is born indeed.
In the inn they found no room; a scanty bed they made:
Soon a Babe
from Mary's womb was in the manger laid.
Forth He came as light
through glass: He came to save us all, In the stable ox and ass before
their Maker fall.
Sing high, sing low, etc.
Shepherds lay afield that night, to keep the silly sheep, Hosts of angels
in their sight came down from heaven's high steep. Tidings! tidings!
unto you: to you a Child is born,
Purer than the drops of dew, and
brighter than the morn.
Sing high, sing low, etc.

Onward then the angels sped, the shepherds onward went,
God was in
His manger bed, in worship low they bent.
In the morning see ye
mind, my masters one and all,
At the altar Him to find who lay within
the stall.
Sing high, sing low, etc.
_H. R. Bramley._
A CHRISTMAS BALLAD.
Outlanders, whence come ye last?
_The snow in the street and the
wind on the door._
Through what green sea and great have ye past?

_Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
From far away, O masters mine,
_The snow in the street and the wind
on the door._
We come to bear you goodly wine:
_Minstrels and
maids, stand forth on the floor._
From far away we come to you,
_The snow in the street and the wind
on the door._
To tell of great tidings strange and true:
_Minstrels
and maids, stand forth on the floor._
News, news of the Trinity,
_The snow in the street and the wind on
the door._
And Mary and Joseph from over the sea:
_Minstrels and
maids, stand forth on the floor._
For as we wandered far and wide,
_The snow in the street and the
wind on the door._
What hope do ye deem there should us betide?

_Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
Under a bent when the night was deep,
_The snow in the street and
the wind on the door._
There lay three shepherds tending their sheep:

_Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._
"O ye shepherds, what have ye seen,
_The snow in the street and the

wind on the door._
To slay your sorrow and heal your teen?"

_Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the