Puslapio vaizdai
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Save if the door half-opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face.
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies

And momentary pauses of the thought!

My babe so beautiful; it thrills my heart
With tender gladness thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim.
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the night thatch
Smokes in the sun thaw; whether the eave-drops fall,
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

COLERIDGE.

Our ancestors began their winter revels as early as the feast of Saint Martin, the 11th of November. Old HERRICK is in his most joyous mood when he deals with these subjects:

It is the day of Martelmass,
Cups of ale should freely pass;
What though Winter has begun
To push down the Summer sun,
To our fire we can betake,
And enjoy the crackling brake,
Never heeding Winter's face
On the day of Martelmass.

Some do the city now frequent,
Where costly shows and merriment
Do wear the vapourish evening out
With interlude and revelling rout;
Such as did pleasure England's queen,
When here her royal grace was seen;
Yet will they not this day let pass,
The merry day of Martelmass.

When the daily sports be done,
Round the market-cross they run,
Prentice lads, and gallant blades,
Dancing with their gamesome maids,
Till the beadle, stout and sour,
Shakes his bell, and calls the hour;
Then farewell lad and farewell lass
To the merry night of Martelmass.

Martelmass shall come again,

Spite of wind, and snow, and rain;
But many a strange thing must be done,
Many a cause be lost and won,
Many a tool must leave his pelf,
Many a worldling cheat himself,
And many a marvel come to pass,
Before return of Martelmass.

Another fine old poet, GEORGE WITHER, shall sing a right English Christmas feasting song:

Lo! now is come our joyfull'st feast,

Let every man be jolly,

Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.

Now, all our neighbours' chimneys smoke.
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak'd meats choke.
And all their spits are turning.

Without the door let sorrow lie;
And if, for cold, it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas Pie,
And ever more be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,

And no man minds his labour;

Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabor.

Rank misers now do sparing shun;

Their hall of music soundeth;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.

The country folk themselves advance;

For Crowdy mutton 's come out of France:
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

HERRICK is sure not to be without a song when the old rites of hospitality are going forward:

Come, bring with a noise,

My merry, merry boys,

The Christmas log to the firing,
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,

And drink to your hearts' desiring.

With the last year's brand
Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
On your psalt'ries play,

That sweet luck may

Come while the log is a tending.

Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a shredding;

For the rare mince-pie,

And the plums stand by,

To fill the paste that 's a kneading.

But the Christmas of our ancestors was a time of solemn though cheerful thought. There was mumming and minstrelsy, but there was also earnest devotion. The very superstitions of the people were hallowed by their confiding belief:

Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planet strikes,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm;
So gracious and so hallowed is the time.

Hor. So have I heard, and do in part believe it.

SHAKSPERE.

Read

The Christmas Carol was not then a thing to be mocked at. the following homely favourite of three centuries ago, and ask if there is not real poetical power in it-the power of earnest faith:

God rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,

For Jesus Christ our Saviour
Was born upon this day,

To save us all from Satan's power,

When we were gone astray.

O tidings of comfort and joy,

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day

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