CHRISTMAS MINSTRELSY.

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH.

THE minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,

The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze

Had sunk to rest with folded wings : Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand!

And who but listened ?-till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,

The greeting given, the music played,
In honour of each household name,

Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all!

Oh, brother! I revere the choice

That took thee from thy native hills;

And it is given thee to rejoice: Though public care full often tills (Heaven only witness of the toil)

A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet would that thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine

A true revival of the light,

Which Nature and these rustic powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours!

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait

On these expected annual rounds; Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate

Call forth the unelaborate sounds,

Or they are offered at the door

That guards the lowliest of the poor.

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep

Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,

To hear and sink again to sleep!

Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire, the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence!

The mutual nod,—the grave disguise

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er;

And some unbidden tears that rise

For names once heard, and heard no more;

Tears brightened by the serenade

For infant in the cradle laid.

Ah! not for emerald fields alone,

With ambient streams more pure and bright

Than fabled Cytherea's zone

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,

Is to my heart of hearts endeared

The ground where we were born and reared.

Hail, ancient manners! sure defence,

Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense

Thus into narrow room withdraws; Hail, usages of pristine mould,

And ye that guard them, mountains old!

Bear with me, brother! quench the thought
That slights this passion, or condemns;
If thee fond Fancy ever brought

From the proud margin of the Thames,
And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To humbler streams and greener bowers.

Yes, they can make, who fail to find,
Short leisure even in busiest days,

Moments to cast a look behind,

And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off past reveal.

Hence, while the imperial city's din

Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,

A pleased attention I may win

To agitations less severe,
That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy!

William Wordsworth.

MUSIC I love, but never strain

Could kindle raptures so divine, So grief assuage, so conquer pain, And rouse this pensive heart of mine

As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes borne.

Though darkness still her empire keep,

And hours must pass ere morning break; From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,

That music kindly bids us wake:

It calls us, with an angel's voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,

To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight

In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them I celebrate His birth

Glory to God in highest heaven,
Good will to men, and peace on earth,
To us a Saviour-king is given :
Our God is come to claim His own,

And Satan's power is overthrown!