Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer,
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone;
Or listened all, in grim delight,

While Scalds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth in frenzy would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.

And well our Christian sires of old

Loved when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again With all his hospitable train.

Domestic and religious rite

Gave honour to the holy night :

On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas-eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed her pride.

The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose e;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide ;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn.
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high
Crested with bays and rosemary.

Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.

The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribands, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum porridge stood, and Christmas pie:
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din ;
If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note, and strong.

Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But oh! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports agen.
'Twas Christmas broached the merriest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer

The poor

man's heart through half the year.

Still linger in our northern clime

Some remnants of the good old time;
And still within our valleys here
We hold the kindred title dear,

Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim
To southern ear sounds empty name ;
For course of blood our proverbs deem
Is warmer than the mountain stream.
And thus my Christmas still I hold
Where my great-grandsire came of old.

RICHARD I. AT HIS FATHER'S BIER. A.D. 1189.

TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontevrauld;

Banners of battle o'er him hung, and warriors slept beneath; And light, like the moon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of death.

On the settled face of Death, a strong and ruddy glare, Though dimmed at times by censers' breath, yet it fell still brightest there,

As if each deeply-furrowed trace of earthly years to show: Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, sang mass for the parted soul:

And solemn were the strains they poured in the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown, and sword,—and the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the

tread;

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang, with a sounding thrill of dread.

And the holy chant was hushed awhile, as, by the torches' flame,

A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look, a dark glance high and clear But his proud heart 'neath his breast-plate shook, when he stood beside the bier.

He stood there still, with drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised;

For his father lay before him now-it was Coeur-de-Lion gazed.

And silently he strove with the workings of his breast; But there's more in late repentant love than steel may keep suppressed,

And his tears brake forth at last like rain-men held their

breath in awe;

For his face was seen by his warrior train, and he recked

not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead! and sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, even as lead, pale on the fast-shut eye. He stooped and kissed the frozen cheek, and the hand of

lifeless clay,

Till bursting words-yet all too weak-gave his soul's passion way.

"O father! is it vain, this late remorse, and deep?

Speak to me, father! once again!-I weep-behold, I weep!

Alas! my guilty pride and ire! Were but this work undone,

I would give England's crown, my sire, to hear thee bless thy son!

'Speak to me!-Mighty grief ere now the dust hath stirred! Hear me but hear me !—father, chief, my king! I must be heard!

Hushed, hushed ?-how is it that I call, and that thou answerest not?

When was it thus ?-Woe, woè, for all the love my soul

66

forgot!

Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright!

And, father, father! but for me, they had not been so

white!

I bore thee down, high heart! at last no longer couldst thou strive

Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel, and say, 'Forgive!'