UNDER THE HOLLY BOUGH.

Ye who have scorned each other
In this fast fading year,

Or wronged a friend or brother,
Come gather humbly here:
Let sinned against and sinning
Forget their strife's beginning,
Be links no longer broken
Beneath the holly bough,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken
Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have loved each other
In this fast fading year,
Sister, or friend, or brother,

Come gather happy here:
And let your hearts grow
fonder
As mem'ry glad shall ponder
Old loves and later wooing
Beneath the holly bough,
So sweet in their renewing
Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness
In this fast fading year,

Estranged from joy and gladness,
Come gather hopeful here:

Under the Holly Bough.

No more let useless sorrow
Pursue you night and morrow;
Come join in our embraces
Beneath the holly bough;
Take heart, uncloud your faces
Beneath the holly bough.

197

Charles Mackay.

17*

THE DAWN OF CHRISTMAS.

Acold it is and middle night:

The moon looks down the snow, As if an angel, clad in white,

Carried her lanthorn so

That, going forth the streets of light, She made an earthward glow.

A drift enfolds the chapel eaves
Like downy coverlet;

And, garnered into whited sheaves,
The graves are harvest-set
Waiting the yeoman. All the panes
Are rich with rimy fret.

The sexton mounts the outer stair
Where chilly sparrows cower—
And bells ring down the winter air
From forth the snowy tower;
For, muffled deep in drift, the clock
Hath struck the Christmas hour.

And over barn, and buried stack,
And out the naked copse,

And where the owl sits plump and black
Amid the chestnut tops-

The Dawn of Christmas.

The branches echo back the bells,
Like dulcet organ stops.

For blast of wind and creak of bough
And rustle of the frost,

And winter's inner voice-avow

The holy hour is crossed,

And far, mysterious music sounds,

Sweet like a harping host.

199

H. S. M.

BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.

Between the moonlight and the fire,
In winter evenings long ago,

What ghosts I raised at your desire,

To make your leaping blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we grow! What Christmas ghost can make us chill— Save these that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will?

The beasts can talk in barn and byre
On Christmas-eve, old legends know.
As one by one the years retire,

We men fall silent then, I trow—
Such sights has memory to show,
Such voices from the distance thrill.
Ah me! they come with Christmas snow,
The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Oh, children of the village choir,

Your carols on the midnight throw! Oh, bright across the mist and mire,

Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow! Beat back the shades, beat down the woe, Renew the strength of mortal will;