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AMUSING POETRY.

Christmas.

A SONG FOR THE YOUNG AND THE WISE.

CHRISTMAS Comes! He comes, he comes,
Usher'd with a rain of plums;

Hollies in the windows greet him;
Schools come driving post to meet him,
Gifts precede him, bills proclaim him,
Every mouth delights to name him;
Wet, and cold, and wind, and dark
Make him but the warmer mark;
And yet he comes not one embodied,
Universal's the blithe godhead,
And in every festal house
Presence hath ubiquitous.

Curtains, those snug room-enfolders,
Hang upon his million shoulders;

And he has a million eyes

Of fire, and eats a million pies,

And is very merry and wise;
Very wise and very merry,

And loves a kiss beneath the berry.

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Now is he a green array,

And now an eve" and now a "day;"
Now he's town gone out of town,
And now a feast in civic gown,
And now the pantomime and clown
With a crack upon the crown
And all sorts of tumbles down;
And then he's music in the night,
And the money gotten by't;

He's a man that can't write verses,
Bringing some to ope your purses;
He's a turkey, he's a goose,
He's oranges unfit for use,
He's a kiss that loves to grow
Underneath the mistletoe,

And he's forfeits, cards, and wassails,
And a king and queen with vassals,
All the "quizzes" of the time
Drawn and quarter'd with a rhyme;
And then for their revival's sake,
Lo! he's an enormous cake,
With a sugar on the top
Seen before in many a shop,
Where the boys could gaze
They think the cake so very
He's a dinner where you see

Every body's family;

for ever,

clever.

Beef and pudding, and mince-pies,
And little boys with laughing eyes,

Whom their seniors ask arch questions,

Feigning fears of indigestions,

(As if they, forsooth, the old ones

IIadn't privately tenfold ones!)

IIe's a dinner, and a fire,

Heap'd beyond your heart's desire,
Heap'd with logs, and baked with coals,
Till it roasts your very souls,

And your cheek the fire outstares,
And you all push back your chairs,
And the mirth becomes too great,
And you all sit up too late,
Nodding all with too much head,
And so go off to too much bed.

LEIGH HUNT.

The Philosopher and her Father.
A SOUND came booming through the air-
"What is that sound?" quoth I.
My blue-eyed pet, with golden hair,
Made answer, presently,

"Papa, you know it very well

That sound-it was Saint Pancras Bell."

"My own Louise, put down the cat,

And come and stand by me; I'm sad to hear you talk like that, Where's your philosophy?

That sound-attend to what I tell

That sound was not Saint Pancras Bell.

"Sound is the name the sage selects

For the concluding term

Of a long series of effects,

Of which that blow's the germ.

The following brief analysis
Shows the interpolations, Miss.

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