Wealth has its duties now, Christians, you will allow

Think, then, ye rich, whilst your tables are spread, Think of those wretched ones, Poverty's stricken sons,

;

Weeping, whilst children are asking for bread. Ring out, ye merry bells! ring till your music swells Out o'er the mountain and far on the main; Ring till those cheerless ones catch up your merry tones, Singing, "Come, Christmas, again and again."

COME TO THE GREENWOOD, COME!

COME, come to the greenwood, come! Come, ere the cuckoo's note dies on the lea; Come, whilst the hawthorn blows

Beautiful summer snows,

And honey-bees sing in the sycamore tree.

Come, come to the greenwood, come! Come, and I'll crown thee with leaves from the bough; Come, whilst the sooty bird*

Soft as a lute is heard,

Waking the hill from its base to the brow.

Come, come to the greenwood, come!

Come, whilst the turtles are talking above;
Come, and I'll weave for thee,

Down by the willow-tree,

Songs full of flowers in the loom of my love.

*The blackbird.

Come, come to the greeenwood, come! Come where the violet-wing butterflies play;

Come whilst the heather-bell

Rings in the hollow dell,

Come, my sweet Lily-love, come, come away.

A SPRINGTIDE WELCOME.

HAIL to thee, nymph of sunny face,

With thy emerald robes of flowing grace!

To the woodland come with thy rich-toned lyre,
And the forest tribe with thy music fire.

We have looked for the woodbine and leafy bower,

The moss-covered couch and vernal shower,

The primroses' peep, and rich blue-bell,

And the purple violet of the dell.

We have looked for her white scented sister too, And the bright golden kingcup, quaffing dew, With the daisy, star of the floral train,

And her laughing eye; but looked in vain,

Till thy mild, soft glance, and genial smile,

Chased the north's chill blasts from our favourite isle ; Like the passions that swell in the angry breast,

Are lulled by the mild, soft look to rest.

We have listened to hear the cuckoo's note,

Tunefully on the breezes float,

Whilst the lithe-built lark, from the wide-stretched

plain,

With his fresh-plumed wings would soar again;

And, mounting, warble his varied lay,

In the radiant face of the orb of day;
Winging his upward, onward flight,
Till he vanished in effulgent light.

When dark-visaged Night had relinquished her reign, And the skies by the sun were illumined again,

Or when in the west the bright Day-God would die, And burnish the clouds with a glance from his eye; Inhaling the balmy, ambrosial air,

We have listened to hear some melody rare;

But mute was the valley, and silent the grove,
No chorister echoed the music of love;

For Albion's chief songsters had fled from the hill,
And nature was sullen, and cheerless, and still.

O sweet child of grace and beauty divine,
We yield to thy sceptre, and bow at thy shrine;
Invoking thy presence with innocent mirth,

To hover awhile o'er our beautiful earth.