"Tis by the glow my bumper gives, Life's picture 's mellow made; The fading light then brightly lives And softly sinks the shade. "In life I've run all changes through, Run every pleasure down." Some happier tint still rises there My Muse, too, when her wings are dry, But round the bowl she 'll dip and fly, Like swallows round a lake. Then, if each nymph will have her share, Why, that I think 's a reason fair In life I 've rung all changes through, Tried all extremes of folly too, And lived with half the town; For me there's nothing new nor rare, And that I think 's a reason fair I find, too, when I stint my glass, And sit with sober air, I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass Or, harder still, am doomed to bear Some coxcomb's fribbling strain; There's many a lad I knew is dead, A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. WAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, CHARLES MORRIS. With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleighful of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! He was chubby and plump-a right jolly old elf- And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to the sleigh, to the 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. 66 Soon as the evening shades prevail, Whilst all the stars that round her burn, What though, in solemn silence, all NEGRO REVIVAL HYMN. HI, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes, Wid de blowin' er de trumpits en de bangin' er de drums? How many po' sinners 'll be kotched out late En fine no latch ter de golden gate? Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed en bol', De song er salvashun is a mighty sweet song, No use fer ter wait twell ter-morrer, W'en de nashuns er de earf is a standin' all aroun', Who's a gwine ter be choosen fer ter w'ar de glorycrown? De time is right now; en dish yer's de place — JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. QOOKS are the true levelers. They give to all who faithfully use them the society, the spiritual presence, of the greatest and best of our race. How it swells! How it dwells On the future! how it tells To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! On the bosom of the palpitating air! By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells Of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody com pels! In the silence of the night How we shiver with affright, At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people —ah, the people — They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor woman They are neither brute nor humanThey are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; With the pean of the bells! To the pæan of the bells- |