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CHRISTMAS TIDE.

ELIZA COOK.

WHEN the merry spring-time weaves
Its peeping bloom and dewy leaves;
When the primrose opes its eye,

And the young moth flutters by;
When the plaintive turtle-dove

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,
And the noontide rays light up

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
Yellow corn and purple juice,
And Nature's feast be spread

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 rolling storm-cloud scowl,
King Frost may make a slave
Of the river's rapid wave;

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,
Shall mock the storm without;
And sparkling wine-foam rise
'Neath still more sparkling eyes;
The forms that scarcely meet

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!

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Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we:
Here we carouse,
Singing, like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short-
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,
Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;

Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

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.-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;

Let us forget,

Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to night,
Round the old tree.

ALBERT SMITH.

THE old north breeze through the skeleton trees
Is chanting the year out drearily;

But loud let it blow, for at home we know
That the dry logs crackle cheerily ;
And the frozen ground is in fetters bound;
But pile up the wood, we can burn it ;
For Christmas is come, and in every home
To summer our hearts can turn it.
Wassail! wassail!

Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!

Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come.

And far and near, o'er landscape drear,
From casements brightly streaming,
With cheerful glow on the fallen snow
The ruddy light is gleaming;
The wind may shout as it likes without,

It may bluster, but never can harm us;
For a merrier din shall resound within,

And our Christmas feelings warm us.
Wassail! wassail!

Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!

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.
Wassail! wassail!

Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!

Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come.

Let us drink to those eyes we most dearly prize,
We can show how we love them after;
The fire blaze cleaves to the bright holly leaves,
And the mistletoe hangs from the rafter;
We care not for fruit, whilst we here can see
Their scarlet and pearly berries;

For the girls' soft cheeks shall our peaches be,
And their pouting lips our cherries.
Wassail! wassail !

Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!

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
As folks were wont in days of yore,
When burgher grave, and belted knight,

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