Now holier thoughts awake my rhyme,
The village bells with pealing chime;
And sweeter far their notes to me
Than those of loudest revelry.
To yonder heaven-pointing spire
Is bent the charitable Squire,

Where consecrated branches spread
Their weeping tendrils o'er the dead;
While there the elm and sable yew
Lend all their ruggedness to view,
Nor shield they now with leafy bloom
The villager's unsculptured tomb;

As when, with summer foliage crowned,
They hid from gaze each little mound.
Lo, where a goodly blooming train,
The maiden artless, and the swain ;
They hear the summons from afar,
And gather where the holy are.
The aged sire there bends his way,
No staff his feeble arm to stay,
But one whose joy has been to share,
As now, thro' life his pious prayer.
They hic their tribute just to pay

To Him who lengthened has their day;
Within yon deeply shaded pile

Where meek Religion's seen to smile,

As if the wayward to beguile;

While decked with modest evergreen

Her sanctuary may be seen;

A token sure of heavenly grace,

Befitting such a holy place.

The Squire upon his bended knee,
With all his family we see,
Gracing the velvet cushioned pew
With every meek observance due.
O may each humble heart now share
The Church's venerable prayer,
And may this day of all the year

Makes room to give him welcome now,

E'en want will dry its tears in mirth,

And crown him with a holly bough ; Though tramping 'neath a winter sky, O'er snowy paths and rimy stiles, The housewife sets her spinning by,

To bid him welcome with her smiles.

Each house is swept the day before,

And windows stuck with evergreens,

The snow is besomed from the door,

And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.

Gilt holly with its thorny pricks,

And yew, and box, with berries small,

These deck the unused candlesticks,

And pictures hanging by the wall.

Neighbours resume their annual cheer,

Wishing, with smiles and spirits high, Glad Christmas and a happy year,

To every morning passer-by;

Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go,
Accompanied by a favoured swain;

And children pace the crumping snow,
To taste their granny's cake again.

The shepherd now no more afraid,

Since custom doth the chance bestow,

Starts up to kiss the giggling maid,

Beneath the branch of mistletoe, That 'neath each cottage beam is seen,

With pearl-like berries shining gay; The shadow still of what hath been, Which fashion yearly fades away,

The singing waits-a merry throng,

At early morn, with simple skill,

Yet imitate the angel's song,

And chaunt their Christmas ditty still;

CHRISTMAS.

And, 'mid the storm that dies and swells
By fits, in hummings softly steals
The music of the village bells,

Ringing around their merry peals.

When this is past, a merry crew,

Bedecked in masks and ribbons gay, The Morris Dance, their sports renew,

And act their winter evening play. The clown turned king, for penny praise,

Storms with the actor's strut and swell, And harlequin, a laugh to raise,

Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.

And oft for pence and spicy ale,

With winter nosegays pinned before, The wassail-singer tells her tale,

And drawls her Christmas carols o'er. While 'prentice boy, with ruddy face,

And rime-bepowdered dancing locks, From door to door, with happy face,

Runs round to claim his "Christmas-box."

The block upon the fire is put,

To sanction custom's old desires,

And many a fagot's bands are cut

For the old farmer's Christmas fires; Where loud-tongued gladness joins the throng, And Winter meets the warmth of May, Till, feeling soon the heat too strong,

He rubs his shins and draws away. While snows the window-panes bedim, The fire curls up a sunny charm,