And hope reveal her beauteous form,
Bless'd rainbow of the mental storm;
Why do ye weep for pleasures flown?
Lo! here I reign, and Joy's your own;
Let music thrill through festive hall,
And fairy feet like whispers fall."

And why, in truth, should bright eyes weep
For treasures buried in the deep?

Or why those earth-ties fruitless mourn
That never can to earth return?

Thus reason's philosophic power

Would pluck the sting from sorrow's hour;
Would banish with convincing tone,
The sigh that spring's unheard, unknown;
But reason yields to nature's aim.

And thought to feeling's stronger claim.
Thus fitful, like some wandering bird,
Or whispering leaf, by soft winds stirr'd,
The Voice of Christmas will be heard.
Hail, misletoe! bless'd emblem fair,
Thy presence seals the death of care;
How sweet thy fate, to charm the young,
And bloom an evergreen in song.
For, time long past, the druid bard
High held thee in his soul's regard;
Still in our own more polish'd day,
Thou minglest with the poet's lay;
And ages hence the minstrel choir
Shall laud thee with celestial fire,
Pure touchstone of the heart and lyre!
Yes, whilst the mind can deeply feel,
Thus will the harp deep thoughts reveal;

Despite the change of scene or clime,
Despite thy envious touch, old Time.
Ye fairy elves, with gladsome brow,
Who trip it 'neath the sacred bough;
Ye amorous youths, with graceful mien,
Who mingle in that sylph-like scene;
May thus your hours, ye fair, ye brave,
Flow changeless as the ocean wave,
Nor catch one shadow from the grave!
But should you mark the vacant chair,
And memory, battling with decay,
Triumphing over death's stern sway,
Bring back some once-loved image there,—
Let not your bliss be dash'd with fear,
Nor dim your bright eyes with a tear ;
The dead beneath the crumbling mould,
Are stored like unforgotten gold;

They wear, 'tis hoped, their heavenly gem,
And Christmas fondly speaks of them.
Whene'er my towering soul, at last,
From this frail tenement hath pass'd,
From time into eternity,

Say, Christmas, wilt thou speak of me?

FINIS.

W. F. Pratt, Stokesley, Yorkshire.