For course of blood, our proverbs deem, And thus, my Christmas still I hold With amber beard and flaxen hair, The feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine: Small thought was his, in after time, The simple sire could only boast, That he was loyal to his cost; The banish'd race of kings revered, And lost his land, but kept his beard.. In these drear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined; Blood is warmer than water,' dicate our family predilections. 99 -a proverb meant to vin Where cordial friendship gives the hand, Tweed loves them well, and turns again, As loth to leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace :- And as reluctant turn us home, How just, that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! For many a merry hour we've known, And heard the chimes of midnight's tone. Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace! Of Roman and of Grecian lore, Sure mortal brain can hold no more. On Christmas eve a Christmas tale- Before you touch my charter, hear; My cause with many-languaged lore. This may I say:-in realms of death Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith; "Hannibal was a pretty fellow, sir-a very pretty fellow in his day."-Old Bachelor. Æneas, upon Thracia's shore, The ghost of murder'd Polydore ; As grave and duly speaks that ox, All nations have their omens drear, Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria look-the peasant see Bethink him of Glendowerdy, And shun "the Spirit's Blasted. Tree." He fears the vengeful Elfin King, Who leaves that day his grassy ring ; Invisible to human ken, He walks among the sons of men. Didst ere, dear Heber, pass along Beneath the towers of Franchémont, Which, like an eagle's nest in air, Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair?Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amass'd through rapine and through wrong By the last lord of Franchémont. The iron chest is bolted hard, A huntsman sits, its constant guard; An 'twere not for his gloomy eye, Or ever hollow'd to a hound. |