CHRISTMAS TIDE. ELIZA COOK. WHEN the merry spring-time weaves And the young moth flutters by; Pours its notes of peace and love; And the clear sun flings its glory bright and wide— Yet my soul will own More joy in winter's frown, And wake with warmer flush at Christmas tide. The summer beams may shine On the rich and curling vine, The tulip's dazzling cup; But the pearly mistletoe, And the holly berries' glow, Are not even by the boasted rose outvied; For the happy hearts beneath The green and coral wreath Love the garlands that are twined at Christmas tide. Let the autumn days produce In the fruitage ripe and red; 'Tis grateful to behold Gushing grapes, and fields of gold, When cheeks are browned, and red lips deeper dyed; But give, oh! give to me, The winter night of glee, The mirth and plenty seen at Christmas tide. The northern gust may howl, The snow-drift choke the path Or the hail-shower spend its wrath, But the sternest blast right bravely is defied, While limbs and spirits bound To the merry minstrel sound, And social wood-fires blaze at Christmas tide. The song, the laugh, the shout, Then hand to hand shall greet, And soul pledge soul that leagues too long divide. Mirth, friendship, love, and light, Shall crown the winter night, And every glad voice welcome Christmas tide. But while joy's echo falls In gay and plenteous halls, Let the poor and lowly share The warmth, the sports, the fare; For the one of humble lot Must not shiver in his cot, But claim a bounteous meed from wealth and pride. Shed kindly blessings round. Till no aching heart be found, And then all hail to merry Christmas tide! Sang, in its bloom; Here let us sport, Evenings we knew, Faces we miss, Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust! Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate: Let the dog wait; Happy we'll be! Drink every one; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree! Drain we the cup.- Let us forget, Round the old tree. Sorrows, begone! ALBERT SMITH. THE old north breeze through the skeleton trees But loud let it blow, for at home we know Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home; Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come. And far and near, o'er landscape drear, It may bluster, but never can harm us; And our Christmas feelings warm us. Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home; Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come. The flowers are torpid in their beds, Till spring's first sunbeam sleeping; Not e'en the snowdrops' pointed heads Above the earth are peeping; But OLD CHRISTMAS. groves remain on each frosted pane Of feathery trees and bowers; And fairer far we 'll maintain they are Than summer's gaudiest flowers. Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home; Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come. Let us drink to those eyes we most dearly prize, For the girls' soft cheeks shall our peaches be, Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home; Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come. OLD CHRISTMAS. J. BRIDGEMAN. NCE more the rapid, flecting year Has brought old Christmas to the door; Come, let us treat him with such cheer |