And smutted cheeks the visors made; But oh! what maskers richly dight Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. ’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; ’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale: A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man’s heart through half the year. Still linger, in our Northern clime, Some remnants of the good old time; And still, within our valleys here, We hold the kindred title dear, Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim To Southern ear sounds empty name; For course of blood, our proverbs deem, Is warmer than the mountain-stream. And thus my Christmas still I hold Where my great grandsire came of old, With amber beard, and flaxen hair, And reverend apostolic air— The feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine: Small thought was his in after time E’er to be hitched into a rhyme. The simple sire could only boast, That he was loyal to his cost; The banished race of kings revered, And lost his land—but kept his beard. In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined; Where cordial friendship gives the hand, And flies constraint the magic wand Of the fair dame that rules the land. Little we heed the tempest drear, While music, mirth, and social cheer, Speed on their wings the passing year. And Mertoun’s halls are fair e’en now, When not a leaf is on the bough. Tweed loves them well, and turns again, As loth to leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace: Gladly as he, we seek the dome, And as reluctant turn us home. How just that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! For many a merry hour we’ve known, And heard the chimes of midnight’s tone. Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace! Of Roman and of Grecian lore Sure mortal brain can hold no more. These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, “Were pretty fellows in their day;” But time and tide o’er all prevail— On Christmas eve a Christmas tale, Of wonder and of war—“Profane! What! leave the loftier Latian strain, Her stately prose, her verse’s charms, To hear the clash of rusty arms: In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, To jostle conjuror and ghost, Goblin and witch!” Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear; Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore, This may I say:—in realms of death Ulysses meets Alcides’ _wraith_; Æneas, upon Thracia’s shore, The ghost of murdered Polydore; For omens, we in Livy cross, At every turn, _locutus Bos_. As grave and duly speaks that ox, As if he told the price of stocks Or held in Rome republican,