Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon. The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win, I envy him the ungyved prance By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms. Oh, could he have my share of din, 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without. JAMES RUSSEll Lowell. THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 'TWAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen ! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen !— soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, pack. His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump-a right jolly old elf— And filled all the stockings; then turn'd with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy. Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!' CLEMENT C. MOORE. AT THE HEARTHSIDE. HIS children early laid away, His hearthside bright and still, The mother slowly strokes her arms, She softly nears the chimney nook So waters of a sunny brook If he, if he but lift his face The hearth flames quicken, spring; And wife and kettle sing. JOHN VANCE CHENEY. LITTLE THEOCRITUS. YE White Sicilian goats, who wander all Take heed your horny footsteps do not fall Upon the baby dreamer in the grass. Let him lie there, half waking, and rejoice Look up, sweet baby eyes, look up on high, Those little clinging hands shall write, one day, Rare, golden words, to lift the hearts of men ; Those curling, downy locks shall wear the bay, A crown that they shall never lose again. Little Theocritus! Look up and smile, Immortal child, for there are coming years, When the great busy world shall pause awhile, To listen to your singing through its tears. CAROLINE W. FELLOWES PARADISE. PHILIP, MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Round whom the enshadowing purple lies |