THE MAHOGANY TREE.

CHRISTMAS is here:

Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill.

Little care we;
Little we fear

Weather without,

Sheltered about

The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs

Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we.
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,

Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit,

Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.

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THE MAHOGANY TREE.

Life is but short;
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,

Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew
Happy as this;

Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!

We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals;
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup:
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;

Empty it yet;

Let us forget,

Round the old tree.

THE GRACE OF SIMPLICITY

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,

Duns and their bills,

Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn,

Blue-devil sprite!

Leave us to-night,

Round the old tree!

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE GRACE OF SIMPLICITY.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast,
Still to be powdered, still perfumed!
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

BEN JONSON.

JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD.

ONE time my soul was pierced as with a sword,
Contending still with men untaught and wild,
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child.

A summer gift, my precious flower was given,
A very summer fragrance was its life;

Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven,
When home I turned, a weary man of strife.

With unformed laughter, musically sweet,

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss: With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet! O, in the desert, what a spring was this!

A few short months it blossomed near my heart:
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad;
But that home-solace nerved me for my part,

And of the babe I was exceeding glad.

Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying;
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night!)
And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying,
Took gently home the child of my delight.

JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD.

Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished,
But gradual faded from our love away:
As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished,
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day.

My blessed Master saved me from repining,
So tenderly He sued me for His own;
So beautiful He made my babe's declining,
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done.

And daily to my board at noon and even

Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, That we might commune of our rest in Heaven, Gazing the while on death, without its sting.

And of the ransom for that baby paid

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, That the sure truth of grief a gladness made:

Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed!

There were two milk-white doves, my wife had nourished;
And I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand

Marking how each the other fondly cherished,
And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand!

So tame they grew that, to his cradle flying,
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest;
And to the murmurs of his sleep replying,
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast.