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My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,

No frolic flights will take,
But round the bowl she 'l1 dip and fly,

Like swallows round a lake.
Then, if each nymph will have her share,

Before she 'l1 bless her swain, Why, that I think's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

In life I've rung all changes through,

Run every pleasure down,
Tried all extremes of folly too,

And lived with half the town;
For me there's nothing new nor rare,

Till wine deceives my brain;
And that I think's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

I find, too, when I stint my glass,

And sit with sober air,
I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass

Who treads the path of care;
Or, harder still, am doomed to bear

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain;
And that I'm sure's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

There's many a lad I knew is dead,

And many a lass grown old,
And as the lesson strikes my head,

My weary heart grows cold;
But wine awhile drives off despair—

Nay, bids a hope remain;
And that I think's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

Charles Morris.

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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

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen «iow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects belo>v;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,


With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and

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 nil 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,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old erf—
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a

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.

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Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly, to the listening Earth,
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball:
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found:
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."

Joseph Addison.


§H, whar shill we go w'en do 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',
En answer to der name at de callin' er de roll?
You better come now ef you comin'
Ole Satun is loose en a bummin' —
De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin'—
Oh, come 'long, sinners, ef you cumin'!

De song er salvashun is a mighty sweet song,
En de l'airidise win' blow fur en blow strong,
En Aberham's bosom, hits saft en bits wide,
En right dar's de place whar de sinners oughter hide!
Oh, you nee'n ter be a stoppin' en a lookin';
Ef you fool wid ole Satun you'll git took in;
You "ll hang on de aidge en get shook in,
Ef you keep on a stoppin' en a lookin".


"Dc time is right now, cn dish yer's de place.'

No use fer ter wait twell ter-morrer,
De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer. —
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier —
O Lord! fetch de mo'ners up higher!

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 —
Let de sun er salvashun shine squar' in yo' face;
Fight de battles er de Lord, fight soon en fight late,
Eu you 'l1 allers fine a latch ter de golden gate;

No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer,

De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer,—

Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier.

Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher!

Joel Chandler Harris.

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OOKS 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.


SISpEAR the sledges with the bells,
Silver bells!

'fp What a world of merriment their melody foreHow they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells-
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of enphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future 1 how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells
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,
Now— now to sit or never,
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!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
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

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 compels!

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,

In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman —
They are neither brute nor human —

They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,

A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With the paean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the ptean of the bells
Of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

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