ΙΟ

Welcome, Merry Christmas.

When you with velvets mantled o'er
Defy December's tempest's roar,
Oh! spare one garment from your store,
To clothe the poor at Christmas.

When you the costly banquet deal
To guests, who never famine feel,
Oh! spare one morsel from your meal,
To feed the poor at Christmas.

When gen'rous wine your care controls,
And gives new joy to happiest souls,
Oh! spare one goblet from your bowls,
To cheer the poor at Christmas.

So shall each note of mirth appear

More sweet to Heaven than praise or prayer,

And Angels, in their carols there,

Shall bless the poor at Christmas.

King Witlaf's Drinking Horn.

ITLAF, a king of the Saxons,

WITH

Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed,

That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,

They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dewdrops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached His holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.

I 2

King Witlaf's Drinking Horn.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule log cracked in the chimney,
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!"

H. W. Longfellow.

Song

H

Song.

EARS not my Phyllis how the birds

Their feathered mates salute ?

They tell their passion in their words;
Must I alone be mute?

Phyllis, without frown or smile,

Sat and knotted all the while.

The god of love in thy bright eyes
Does like a tyrant reign;
But in thy heart a child he lies,
Without his dart or flame.
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

So many months in silence past,
And yet in raging love,

Might well deserve one word at last
My passion should approve.

Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

Must then your faithful swain expire,

And not one look obtain,

Which he, to soothe his fond desire,
Might pleasingly explain?
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

Sir Charles Sedley, 1639—1701.

H

Upon a Child that Died.

ERE she lies, a pretty bud,

Lately made of flesh and blood:
When, as soon, fell fast asleep,

As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings; but not stir
The earth, that lightly covers her.

Robert Herrick, 1591—1674.