Fresh glistening from the briny element,
And fluttering still with life. How merrily
The crew exulting fling them on the beach

In plenteous heaps, while wives and children haste
To lend their ready aid, and in kind phrase
Of fond affection, speak their welcome home.
While yet the sail was but a distant speck
On the horizon's verge, their anxious eyes
Had recognised the dear familiar boat.

With trembling hope, for, oh, it sometimes haps,
The boat and dearly purchased freight return,
But the brave crew are missing! One wild wave
Raised by a sudden gust, hath swept, perchance,
O'er her low deck, and hurried all away,

Even in sight of port.

Such tragedies

Too oft befal upon our Suffolk coast,

When, with a shriek, the tempest riseth up
And rends November's foggy shroud away;
From the long slumbering main-swart billows toss
Their foaming heads, and charge upon the shore
Like steeds that rush to battle in their wrath.

DECEMBER IN THE OLDEN TIME.

"THE fields make heavy cheer!" So said of yore
Our Saxon shepherds, when December spread
His hoary mantle over hill and dale,

And raised 'midst leafless woods the wild lament
Of the departing year: while silent birds

Sore prest with hunger left their sheltering bowers,
And timidly approach'd the haunts of man,
In quest of food. Full oft the slender print
Of their light furtive footsteps might be traced
In the fresh sprinkling of new-fallen snow,

At early morn, around the cottage door

Or window sill, where the kind maidens strewed
The crumbs for their repast at eventide,

In tender pity gathered up for them

From the last plenteous meal.

Then pale-faced want

Looked to the ladye, "giver of the bread,"*

For kindly succour in that time of need;

Nor feared a stinted dole or stern rebuke

* Such was the ancient signification of the word.

From patriarchal chief, who lent his alms,
For Jesu's sake, with gracious look and word,
And begged the poor man's prayer in recompence
Of that frank charity which brought, he deemed,
God's blessing on the cheerful giver's store.
Christmas was then, I ween, a joyous time
For high and low; a general festival,
Held in dear memory of him who took
Our nature on him; and as at this time
Was of a Virgin mother born, to save
Lost sinners from the penalty of sin;
Born as a pilgrim and a wayfarer

In this lone vale of tears, beneath the roof
Of humblest stable. Royal David's race
Could find no sheltering corner in the inn
Of David's town.

Ah, faithless Bethlehem!
By prophets warned in vain, thou knewest not
hy time of visitation, couldst not see
The herald star, bright journeying from the east,
That pointed to the shed, where Mary lulled
The heavenly babe to rest, and cradled him.
In the rude manger, while the seraphim,
To shepherds watching o'er their flocks that night,
Told the glad tidings of a Saviour's birth,
And all the shining choristers of heaven
Descended in effulgent pomp, to sing

The first triumphant anthem, that proclaimed
The Advent of the Lord, with peace on earth,
Good-will to men, and glory unto God-

poor,

God in the highest, praised for evermore!
Sweet anthem, still repeated by the church,
When time brings round the anniversary
Of that celestial birth she celebrates,
With thanks to God and bounties to the
But not as once in kindly fellowship,
With every link of that extended chain,
Which should unite, in one dear family,
All who confess the blessed Redeemer's name!
The pleasant customs of the good old time
Have passed away; we have no carols now
From infant lips to hallow Christmas eve,
And usher in the Advent of their Lord
With hallelujahs, which did early warm

Young hearts with love and reverence to his name!
The poetry of life, which strewed erewhile.
December's snows with flowers, and made the pulse
Of withered age beat in blithe unison,
With youth rejoicing in its holiday

Is rudely trampled down by Mammon's law.
The poor have lost their pageants, festivals,
Their manly sports, the sympathies that bound
The high and low in friendly brotherhood
Are rent asunder; England's merry days
Live but in song and tale!

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

HOURS that were wasted in pleasure or grief,
Howe'er ye were checkered, your sojourn was brief;
Ye have glided away in your rapid career,

And have brought us again to the close of the year.

Ye are faded and gone, like the flowers of the Spring,
Or the glories which beams on bright Summer days fling,
Or the leaves that were scattered by Autumn's rude gale,
Or the snow-wreaths that melt as they sink in the vale.

Ye are blent with the shadows of ages gone by,
That veiled in the mists of obscurity lie;

And have fleeted like clouds that at sunset were seen,
Yet left not a trace that they had ever been.

The days that are gone are like dreams of the past,
And the hours of the future shall vanish as fast,
Till they silently lead to that moment when life
Shall recede on their wings with its hopes and its strife.

The joys and the sorrows ye brought in your course, That brightened or saddened-whate'er was their source, Shall soften in distance, till all shall appear

Like the storms and the sunshine that vary the year.