II.

Nay, Ivy, nay, it shall not be, I wis, Let Holly have the mastery, as the manner is. Holly standeth in the hall fair to behold; Ivy stands without the door, she is full sore a cold. Nay, Ivy, nay, etc., etc. Holly and his merry men, they dance now and they sing; Ivy and her maidens they weep and their hands wring. Nay, Ivy, nay, etc., etc. Ivy hath a lyke,[15] she caught it with the cold, So may they all have that do with Ivy hold. Nay, Ivy, nay, etc., etc. Holly he hath berries as red as any rose, The foresters, the hunters, keep them for the does. Nay, Ivy, nay, etc., etc. Ivy she hath berries as black as any sloe, There come the owls and eat them as they goe. Nay, Ivy, nay, etc., etc. Holly he hath birds, a full, fair flock, The nightingale, the popinjay, the gentle laverock. Nay, Ivy, nay, etc., etc. Good Ivy say to us what bird hath thou; None but the owlet that cries How! How! _Dating in the 14th century._

THE SEASONS.

A blue-eyed child that sits amid the noon, O’erhung with a laburnum’s drooping sprays, Singing her little songs, while softly, 'round Along the grass the checkered sunshine plays.

All beauty that is throned in womanhood, Pacing a summer-garden’s fountain-walks,

That stoops to smooth a glossy spaniel down, To hide her flushing cheek from one who talks.

A happy mother with her fair-faced girls, In whose sweet Spring again her youth she sees, With shout and dance, and laugh and bound and song, Stripping an Autumn orchard’s laden trees.

An aged woman in a wintry room— Frost on the pane, without the whirling snow— Reading old letters of her far-off youth, Of sorrows past and joys of long ago. N. C. BENNET.

A WINTER SONG.

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail; When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whoo; Tu-whit, to-whoo, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian’s nose looks red and raw; When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whoo; Tu-whit, to-whoo, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. SHAKSPEARE.

THE THRUSH.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough; Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain; See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blithe carol cheers his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid movements, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds the Orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heaven bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share. ROBERT BURNS, 1750–1796.

SONNET.

Sheath’d is the river as it glideth by, Frost-pearl’d are all the boughs in forests old, The sheep are huddling close upon the wold, And over them the stars tremble on high. Pure joys, these winter nights, around me lie; ’Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets At Christmas time, and guess from brow and pace The doom and history of each one we meet; What kind of heart beats in each dusky case; Whiles startled by the beauty of a face In a shop-light a moment; or, instead, To dream of silent fields, where calm and deep The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep— Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead. ALEXANDER SMITH.

SPRING AND WINTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Gentle Spring, in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display! For Winter maketh the light heart sad, And thou—thou makest the sad heart gay. He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, When thy merry step draws near!

Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old Their beards of icicles and snow; And the rain it raineth so fast and cold, We must cover over the embers low; And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, Mope like birds that are changing feather. But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, When thy merry step draws near!

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky Wrap him 'round with a mantle of cloud; But, Heaven be praised! thy step is nigh; Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, And the Earth looks bright, and Winter surly, Who has toiled for naught, both late and early, Is banished afar by the new-born year, When thy merry step draws near! _Translation by_ H. W. LONGFELLOW. CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS, 1391–1467.

WOODS IN WINTER.

When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill That overbrows the lonely vale.

O’er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden those deep solitudes

Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the silence broke, The crystal icicle is hung.

Where from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river’s gradual tide, Shrilly the skater’s iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds in hoarse accord Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year— I listen, and it cheers me long. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

WINTER.

Sad soul—dear heart, O why repine? The melancholy tale is plain; The leaves of spring, the summer flowers Have bloomed and died again.

The sweet and silver-sandaled Dew, Which, like a maiden, fed the flowers, Hath waned into the beldame Frost, And walked amid our bowers.

Some buds there were—sad hearts, be still! Which looked awhile unto the sky, Then breathed but once or lived, to tell How sweetest things may die!

And some must blight where many bloom; But, blight or bloom, the fruit must fall! Why sigh for spring or summer flowers, Since winter gathers all?

He gathers all—but chide him not; He wraps them in his mantle cold, And folds them close, as best he can, For he is blind and old.

Sad soul—dear heart, no more repine— The tale is beautiful and plain: Surely as winter taketh all, The spring shall bring again. T. B. READ.