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THE GREEN HOLLY BOUGH.

I LOVE this glad season, as yearly it comes,

With its cold to our meadows, and mirth to our homes;
I love in the landscape, when whitened with snow,
To mark the bright leaves of the green holly bough.

I love, in the merry fresh days of the spring,
To mark the trees budding, and hear the birds sing;
And now, while our holiday feelings o'erflow,
How cheerfully bright is the green holly bough.

I love, in the warmth of the summer-sunned hours,
To wander alone in the sweet leafy bowers;
But I love in this season to mingle the glow
Of social delight 'neath the green holly bough.

I love, in the autumn, to mark o'er the trees,
The fruitage all ripening in sunshine and breeze;
And I love in the winter, when stormy winds blow,
To mark all uninjured the green holly bough.

I love the warm blaze of the festival halls,
When garlands of bright flowers hang on the walls;
But the fire, nor the feast, nor the garlands can show,
A brightness surpassing the green holly bough.

I love the old custom which yearly suspends
The mystical misletoe over its friends;

But friendship, or love, as sweet kisses may know,
Beneath the safe shade of the green holly bough.

LYRE.

*

C

302

THE GREEN HOLLY BOUGH.

I love the fresh jay, the pledge of regard;
The conqueror's laurel-the lay of the bard;
The fragrant myrtle which lovers bestow,
But most the bright leaves of the green holly bough.

Then gather it quickly, the berries and spray,
And hang it up high on this festival day;
Let wine, mirth, and music, unitedly flow,
All soberly, under the green holly bough.

SONG.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

ALONE beneath the moon I roved,
And thought how oft in hours gone by,
I heard my Mary say she loved
To look upon a moonlight sky!
The day had been one lengthened shower,
Till moonlight came, with lustre meek,
To light up every weeping flower,

Like smiles upon a mourner's cheek.

I called to mind, from Eastern books,

A thought that could not leave me soon ;-
"The moon on many a night-flower looks,
The night-flower sees no other moon.'
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover sighs to thee;
While, oh! I feel there is but one,

One Mary in the world for me!

YELLOW LEAVES.

THE leaves are falling from the trees,
The flowers are fading all;

More chill and boisterous is the breeze,
More hoarse the waterfall:

Thy sky, o'ermantled now with clouds,
Looks gray, and waned, and pale;
The mist-fog spreads its hoary shrouds
O'er mountain, grove, and vale.

How lapse our years away! how fade
The raptures of the mind!
Onward we pass to storm and shade,
And leave blue skies behind:

Like yellow leaves, around us fall

The friends best loved and known;

And when we most have need of all,
We oft are most alone.

Still more alone! blithe Spring comes round;
Rich Summer-tide smiles by;

And golden Autumn paints the ground,
Till Winter's storm-blasts fly.

One after one, friends drop away,
As months on months roll on ;
And hour by hour, and day by day,
The old are more alone.

Still more alone! alas! 'tis vain
New hopes, new hearts to find;
What magic can restore again
The visions of youth's mind?

304

YELLOW LEAVES.

Age walks amid an altered world,
Mid bustling crowds unknown:
New scenes hath Novelty unfurled,
And left the old alone!

"Seer leaves that dangle from Life's tree,"

The whole might well have said,

"A relic of the past are we;

A remnant of the dead:

Like emblems of forlorn decay,

We linger till the last;

But death's long night shall turn to day,
When Time itself is past!"

MORALITY IN MODERATION.

'TWIXT Wit and Wisdom Beauty sat;
Both strove to win her favour;
Wit gaily talked of this and that,

But Wisdom's tone was graver.

The first, her ear with trifles took;
The second, to advise her,

Said "Take a page from Reason's book,
And grow a little wiser."

"Not now, grave sir,"-returned the maid;
"For, though I'm fond of reason,
'Tis much like venison, which, 'tis said,
Is only good-in season.

I must not take the leaf, kind sage,
You'll need its consolation;

And I have here a single Page

That better suits th' occasion.

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