CHRISTMAS TEARS.

I HEAR the loud and merry ring

Of mirth upon the breeze;
The Christmas "waits" are carolling

Beneath the linden trees.

'Tis strange I cannot welcome them

As I was wont to do:

I hear a dirge in every hymn,

In every note a woe.

What is the reason?-Neighbours say

'Tis more than passing strange. Come, gentle Muse, and give them, pray,

A reason for the change.

The yule log burns as brightly now

To warm the chilly air,

As when beneath the laurel bough

My mother graced her chair.

The bells ring out as merrily,

As sweetly sings the choir,
As when with Christmas minstrelsy
They carolled round her fire.

But she has left her wonted place,
And dull is every sound;

The joy, the light of every face,

Sleeps far beneath the ground.

Now, when I take my much-loved flute,

To pipe a joyous strain,

To every accent it is mute,

Save that which doth complain.

The seasons come and pass away:
The spring-time with its glee,
The summer with its warmer ray,
And autumn, dear to me.

I love to list the sweeping gale
That bares its yellow trees,
And hear its melancholy wail

In each complaining breeze.

I tread upon each crumpled leaf,

And mourn with every breath,

That life, at best so frail and brief,
Should yield so soon to death.

When winter comes, I seek some nook,
To weep my mother gone;
Whilst fancy tracks each path she took,
Where I must walk alone.

The lane, the hill, the murmuring rill,
The stile she called her own,

Are sacred to my memory still,
And crowd it one by one.

The flow'rets she was wont to cull
I seek when spring is near,

The primrose and the purple bell,

And bathe them with a tear.

Join, ye who can, the festive scene,
And each sad feeling spurn;

I'll hang my walls with cypress green,

And sit alone and mourn.

Throwing my crumbs upon the snow,

I'll little Robins tend,

And bid their plaintive accents flow

To mourn a common friend.

HOPE.

HOPE is like a lovely star,

When only one is seen;

And like that light afar,

Which gleams the hills between,

When not a silver streak

From the morning can be won,

Save the fringe upon the peak

Of the cloud before the sun.

C

VOL. I.

THE RURAL POSTMAN'S SABBATH.

THE mellowed sounds of Sabbath bells

Fall gently on my ear,

And as they break in murmuring swells, My heart is tuned to prayer.

In Sunday garb, all neatly clad,

With joy upon each face,

The dame and sire, and lass and lad,
Approach the holy place.

'Tis true, in yonder sacred fane

I cannot praise my King;

Yet in the meadow and the lane
I will be worshiping.

And, while I pray, a sweet response

Shall rise from every stream,

And all the little birds at once

Shall chant the morning hymn.