Now-again-the lofty joy-notes thunder in tu

multuous surge,

Now-again-the low-toned chiding of the melancholy dirge.

And the voices in that chiding wail the early-summoned band

That was with us in the spring time, now is in the Spirit-land;

Wail for those whom distant regions saw delivered to their rest,

Garnered in the restless ocean-folded to earth's throbless breast.

No, we greet no roysterer's Christmas; this the dying year hath brought

Sobered, if not sicklied over, with the paler cast of thought;

Rather greet him as we welcome home a treasured friend of yore,

Coming to a board where some he loved will meet his glance no more.

Yet no mourning, no dejection. Hopes are high and hearts are strong!

Fill the wine-cup, speak the homage, pledge the health, and raise the song!

It were shame upon our mission did we pass the goblet by,

Closing such a year with sadness-silent tongue, and drooping eye.

Raise the wine-cup! Though it chanceth we have fallen on stormy days;

Strike no sunshine's golden arrows through the cloud and through the haze?

Is it nought that in the battle Freedom's sacred ensigns flame

Blazoned on our honoured banners, and our war cry is her name ?

Shout! Not now for deeds of heroes,-not for England's old renown;

Not because her lion-children rend the fiercest foeman down;

Not for legions wildly flying, and their standards reft and torn,

Gentler thoughts befit the morning when the Prince of Peace was born.

Gentler!-aye, and grander, prouder! Lightly let no word be said.

What is Peace, if not the cause why England's sword is bare and red?

What she holds her chiefest glory,-what her lifeblood shall defend;

What she claims and wins, if needed, for the friends who call her friend.

Therefore let us raise the wine-cup, mindful of the day we keep :

At the health that we will challenge, every true warm heart shall leap.

Never nobler toast was proffered since at Yule the wine went round

Be it with full cup accepted, and with ringing plaudits crowned.

"Health to those who bear our banner- to the noble and the brave

Honour to each Christian soldier who has found a hero's grave;

May our champions, home among us, ere the summer-roses glow,

Tell where Europe's Twin-Avengers dealt their last and fatal blow!"

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

The Wolf and the Bog.

A PROWLING Wolf, whose shaggy skin
(So strict the watch of dogs had been)
Hid little but his bones,

Once met a mastiff dog astray;
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray
No human mortal owns.

Sir Wolf, in famish'd plight,
Would fain have made a ration
Upon his fat relation,

But then he first must fight;
And well the dog seem'd able
To save from wolfish table

His carcass snug and tight.

So, then, in civil conversation,

The wolf express'd his admiration
Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray, politely,
"Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly:
Quit but the woods, advised by me,
For all your fellows here, I see,

Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt,
Belike to die of haggard want;

With such a pack, of course, it follows,
One fights for every bit he swallows.
Come, then, with me, and share

On equal terms our princely fare."
"But what with you

Has one to do ?"

Inquires the wolf. "Light work indeed,"
Replies the dog; "you only need
To bark a little, now and then,
To chase off duns and beggar-men,-
To fawn on friends that come or go,
Your master please-and so—and so,—
For which you have, to eat
All sorts of well-cook'd meat,
Cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes,—
Besides unnumber'd fond caresses."
The wolf, by force of appetite,
Accepts the terms outright,
Tears glistening in his eyes;
But journeying on he spies

A gall'd spot on the mastiff's neck. "What's that?" he cries. "O nothing but a speck."

"A speck!" "Ay, ay; 'tis not enough to pain me, Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain

me."

"Chain you, you say! Run you not, then
Just where you please, and when!'
"Not always, sir; but what of that ?"
"Enough for me to spoil your fat!
It ought to be a precious price
Which could to servile chains entice;
For me, I'll shun them, while I've wit."
So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet.

LA FONTAINE.

The Fisherman's Wife.

SHE listens ""Tis the wind," she cries:
The moon, that rose so full and bright,
Is now o'ercast; she looks-she sighs;
She fears 'twill be a stormy night.

Not long was Anna wed; her mate,
A fisherman, was out at sea:
The night is dark, the hour is late,

The wind is high, and where is he?

"Oh, who would love, oh, who would wed A wandering fisherman, to be

A wretched lonely wife, and dread

Each breath that blows when he's at sea!"

Not long was Anna wed, one pledge

Of tender love her bosom bore:

The storm comes down, the billows rage;
His father is not yet on shore.