AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS HOME. Eliza Cook. A LOUD and laughing welcome to the merry Christmas bells; All hail with happy gladness to the well-known chant that swells ; We list the pealing anthem chord, we hear the midnight strain, And love the tidings that proclaim old Christmas back again. But there must be a melody of purer, deeper sound; A rich key note whose echo runs through all the music round. Let kindly voices ring beneath low roof or palace dome, For those alone are carol chimes that bless a Christmas home. CHORUS. Then fill once more, from Bounty's store, red wine, or nut brown foan, And drink to kindly voices in an English Christmas home. A bright and joyous welcome to the berries and the leaves, That hang about our household walls in dark and rustling sheaves. Up with the holly and the bay, set laurel on the board, And let the mistletoe look down while pledging draughts are poured. But there must be some hallowed bloom to garland with the rest, All, all must bring toward the wreath some flowers of the breast, For though green boughs may thickly grace; low roof and palace dome, Warm hearts alone will truly serve to deck a Christmas home. CHORUS. Then fill once more, from Bounty's store, red wine, or nut brown foam, And drink to honest hearts within an English Christmas home. CHILDHOOD'S WOES. BUT ah! what light and little things EVENING. Byron. Ir is the hour when from the boughs Sound sweet in every whispered word: Each flower the dews have lightly wet, HISTORY OF MAN. From the Russian, translated by Bowring. WHAT is man's history? Born, living, dying, And casting anchor in the silent grave. 1 GOD'S WATCHFUL CARE. Cunningham, THE insect that with puny wing E'en from the glories of his throne, Loves one, as if that one were all; THE BIRD'S NEST. BEHOLD a bird's nest! Auon. Mark it well within, without! No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert, No glue to join: his little beak was all, And yet how neatly finished! What nice hand TO THE NIGHTINGALE. Milton. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Now timely sing ere the rude bird of hate THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. Milman. Ir matters little at what hour o' the day The less of this cold earth, the more of heaven; |