THE FROSTED TREES.

Anon.

WHAT strange enchantment meets my view,
So wondrous bright and fair?
Has heaven poured out its silver dew
On the rejoicing air?

Or am I borne to regions new,

To see the glories there?

Last eve, when sunset fill'd the sky
With wreaths of golden light,
The trees sent up their arms on high,
All leafless to the sight,

And sleepy mists came down to lie
On the dark breast of night.

But now the scene is changed, and all
Is fancifully new;

The trees last eve so straight and tall,

Are bending on the view;

And streams of living daylight fall
The silvery arches through.

The boughs are strung with glittering pearls,
As dewdrops bright and bland;
And there they gleam in silvery curls,
Like gems of Samarcand;

Seeming in wild fantastic whirls

The work of fairy land.

Each branch stoops meekly with the weight,
And in the light breeze swerves,
As if some viewless angel sate

Upon its graceful curves,

And made the fibres spring elate,
Thrilling the secret nerves.

Oh! I could dream the robe of heaven,
Pure as the dazzling snow,
Beaming as when to spirits given,
Had come in its stealthy flow,

From the sky at silent even

For the morning's glorious show.

HUMAN PERFECTION.

Ben Jonson.

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flow'r of light;
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

CHRISTMAS CHIMES.

Япон.

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
Of England, green and old,
That out from fane and ivied tower
A thousand years have tolled:
How glorious must their music be,
As breaks the hallow'd day,
And calleth, with a seraph's voice,
A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time!

And ring a thousand memories

At vesper and at prime

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king—

Those chimes, those glorious Christmas chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,

Upon a Christmas morn, Outbreaking as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born! How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly deck'd and mistletoe,
To keep the festival.

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and Gothic pile,

Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle :
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery,
And banner-dighted walls.

And then those Easter bells in spring,
Those glorious Easter chimes;
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,
Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the Lord,
From vale to mountain high.

I love ye, chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the Lord that I am sprung
Of good old English line;
And like a son I sing thy lay,
That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the Lord,
For you, ye Christmas bells.

WHILE THE

CHRISTMAS

LOG IS

BURNING.

Eliza Cook.

HAIL to the night when we gather once more, All the forms we love to meet;

When we've many a guest that is dear to our breast

And the household dog at our feet. Who would not be in the circle of glee, Where heart to heart is yearning, When joy breathes out in the laughing shout, While the Christmas log is burning?

'Tis one of the fairy hours of life,

When the world seems all of light;

For the thought of woe, or the name of a foe, Ne'er darkens the festive night;

When bursting mirth rings round the hearth,
Oh! where is the spirit that's mourning,
While merry bells chime with the carol rhyme,
And the Christmas log is burning?

Then is the time when the grey old man
Leaps back to the days of youth;
When brows and eyes wear no disguise
But flush and gleam with truth;
Oh! then is the time when the soul exults,
And seems right heavenward turning;
When we love and bless the hands we press,
While the Christmas log is burning.