If I'd a million millions-- Just think! a million millions!-- How many coals on hostile souls I'd heap with all my millions! No enemy that earned my hate Should for a fiery guerdon wait; With roses sweet I'd twine him o'er Until the thorns should prick him sore (How much of credit may be claimed For _sweetly_ making foes ashamed I do not know; it may depend On how much true love we extend); But love outpoured I could afford, If I'd a million millions! An honest million millions-- Just think! a million millions! The poor should bless the strange success That gave me all those millions! I'd slaughter every hungry wight Within the circle of my sight, And resurrect him with such food As should go far to make him good; No poor-house but must bow its head And gaze at cottage walls instead; And hungry paupers soon should see A year of genuine jubilee. Nought should alloy Their perfect joy, That could be saved by millions! Just think! a million millions!-- The care of all those millions! And after all, what would befall A life with all those millions? Would not the lucre clog my brain, And make me hard and cold and vain? Might not my treasure win my heart, And make me loath with it to part? How could I tell, by mortal sign, Betwixt my money's friends and mine? And then, the greed, and strife, and curse, The world brings round a princely purse: Perhaps my soul, Upon the whole, Is best, without the millions! [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] Now comes the Christmas-tide: Love wakes on every side; Mirth smiles from every eye; Wreaths greet the passer-by. Who, full of haughty pride, Loves not the Christmas-tide? He who, with av'rice low, Cares not to joy bestow. God save the wretch denied Love for the Christmas-tide! God tell his hardened heart Pure joy must joy impart! Who, close to grief allied, Grieves 'mid the Christmas-tide? She who, at Sorrow's call, Now mourns the loss of all. God save the dear bereft-- Teach her the mercies left! Show her that clouds may yet Lift, ere her sun be set! * * * * * Who lonely must abide All through the Christmas-tide? He who has never known Love-passion of his own. So follows he his fate, Friendly but desolate; So--sad--his heart must hide All through the Christmas-tide! [_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._] DECEMBER 25, 18--. Wind in the north-east; snow in wagon-loads; Good sleighing everywhere on all the roads. Family healthy, sensible, and pleasant, And each one got the proper Christmas-present.