Then I think also of my acquaintances who have died during the year; and how they can talk now with Socrates and Numa, and other men of whom I have heard so much good, and with John Huss. And then it seems as if graves opened round me, and shadows with bald crowns and long gray beards came out of them and shook the dust out of their beards. That must be the work of the "Everlasting Huntsman," who has his doings about the twelfth. The old pious long-beards would fain sleep. But a glad new year to your memory and to the ashes in your graves! RHINE WINE With laurel wreathe the glass's vintage mellow, And drink it gayly dry! Through farthest Europe, know, my worthy fellow, For such in vain ye'll try. Nor Hungary nor Poland e'er could boast it: And as for Gallia's vine, Saint Veit the Ritter, if he choose, may toast it,-- We Germans love the Rhine. Our fatherland we thank for such a blessing, And many more beside; And many more, though little show possessing, Well worth our love and pride. Not everywhere the vine bedecks our border, As well the mountains show, That harbor in their bosoms foul disorder; Not worth their room below. Thuringia's hills, for instance, are aspiring To rear a juice like wine; But that is all; nor mirth nor song inspiring, It breathes not of the vine. And other hills, with buried treasures glowing, For wine are far too cold; Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing, And 'chance some paltry gold. The Rhine,--the Rhine,--there grow the gay plantations! Oh, hallowed be the Rhine! Upon his banks are brewed the rich potations Of this consoling wine. Drink to the Rhine! and every coming morrow Be mirth and music thine! And when we meet a child of care and sorrow, We'll send him to the Rhine. WINTER A SONG TO BE SUNG BEHIND THE STOVE Old Winter is the man for me-- Stout-hearted, sound, and steady; Steel nerves and bones of brass hath he: Come snow, come blow, he's ready! If ever man was well, 'tis he; He keeps no fire in his chamber, And yet from cold and cough is free In bitterest December. He dresses him out-doors at morn, Nor needs he first to warm him; Toothache and rheumatis' he'll scorn, And colic don't alarm him. In summer, when the woodland rings, He asks "What mean these noises?" Warm sounds he hates, and all warm things Most heartily despises. But when the fox's bark is loud; When the bright hearth is snapping; When children round the chimney crowd, All shivering and clapping;-- When stone and bone with frost do break, And pond and lake are cracking,-- Then you may see his old sides shake, Such glee his frame is racking. Near the North Pole, upon the strand, He has an icy tower; Likewise in lovely Switzerland He keeps a summer bower.