Domestic and religious rite

Gave honour to the holy night :

On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
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 his pride.
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 wassail1 round in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.2

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 maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din ;

1 wassail-a drink composed of apples and ale, used in festivities, 2 trowls-passes round.

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 maskers richly dight1
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer

The poor man's heart through half the year.

Sir Walter Scott: 1771-1832.

The poetical work of the author of the Waverley Novels is mostly narrative, simple and stirring in character. Scott's 'fame in song' is mainly based upon his poems of Marmion, The Lady of the Lake, and The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

THE EVENING WIND.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice! thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone;-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;

1 dight-dressed.

And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth-
God's blessing breath'd upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird on her nest;

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast! Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that pass'd away,

Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown,— Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again!

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go!-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more.
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

William Cullen Bryant : 1794-1878.
(See page 66.)

EVENING.

How like a tender mother,

With loving thought beguil'd, Fond nature seems to lull to rest Each faint and weary child! Drawing the curtain tenderly, Affectionate and mild.

Hark! to the gentle lullaby,

That through the trees is creeping,
Those sleepy trees that nod their heads,
Ere yet the moon comes peeping,
Like a tender nurse, to see if all

Her little ones are sleeping.

One little flutt'ring bird,

Like a child in a dream of pain,

Has chirp'd and started up,

Then nestled down again,

Oh! a child and a bird, as they sink to rest,

Are as like as any twain!

Charlotte Young.

Author of the World's Complaints and other poems.

SLEEP-SONG.

HUSH the homeless baby's crying,

Tender Sleep!

Every folded violet

May the outer storm forget.
Those wet lids with kisses drying,
Through them creep!

Soothe the soul that lies thought-weary,
Murmurous Sleep!

Like a hidden brooklet's song,
Rippling gorgeous woods among,
Tinkling down the mountains dreary,
White and steep.

Breathe thy balm upon the lonely,
Gentle Sleep!

As the twilight breezes bless

With sweet scents the wilderness :
Ah, let warm white dove-wings only
Round them sweep.

O'er the aged pour thy blessing,
Holy Sleep!

Like a soft and ripening rain,
Falling on the yellow grain:
For the glare of suns oppressing,
Pitying weep!

On thy still seas met together,
Charmed Sleep!

Hear them swell a drowsy hymning,
Swans to silvery music swimming,
Floating with unruffled feather

O'er the deep.

Lucy Larcom.

(An American poetess: born, 1826.)

NIGHT.

OH, the Summer night
Has a smile of light,

And she sits on a sapphire1 throne;
Whilst the sweet winds load her
With garlands of odour,

From the bud to the rose o'erblown !

But the Autumn night
Has a piercing sight,

And a step both strong and free;
And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the thunder,

When he shouts to the stormy sea!

1 sapphi e-a precious stone of a fine blue colour.