CHRISTMAS MOTTOES. (_By Eminent Hands._) OUR LADY CHAMPAGNE. _By A.C.S._ A Maiden makes moan, “Oh my motto Lies lost with its love-litten lay: ’Twas something on ‘green in a grotto,’ And ‘sad seas were sweeter than spray.’” O theme for the scorn of the scoffer, I hear my own verses again, And she ogles me well as I offer My Lady――Champagne. THE BLOOMING DAMOZEL. _By D.G.R._ The blooming damozel leaned o’er The station bar at even, And she was deeper than the depths Of water at Lochleven; She kept my change within her purse, It came to one-and-seven. THE VOLSUNG TALE. _By W.M._ Oh, fain for the wine was Sigurd, and wild were the songs he sang, Like the words from the Halls of Music, for glamour was on his tongue, And he dropped the sword of the Branstock, that trembled in his clutch, And said Gudrun, “Son of the Volsungs, methinks thou has ta’en too much.” Then up rose the King of Men-folk, and vowed he had drunk no ale; And that was the story of Sigurd――lo!――that was the Volsung tale! THE MOTTO. _By R.B._ A Motto! Just a catch-word such as lies Betwixt _Imprimis_ and the colophon; French _mot_, Italian _motto_: for the rest Latin _mutire_. Body o’ me――the Greek Gives _muthos_. So this poem I write and leave To Jansenists, to lie i’ the brains o’ men, I sell you for a _lira_, eight pence just, Then home to Casa Guidi, by the Church. And, British Public, ye who like me not, I think i’ faith I’ve got the best of it! ――――:o:―――― MARCH: AN ODE. Ere frost-flower and snow blossom faded and fell, and the splendour of winter had passed out of sight, The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that fulfil us in sleep with delight; The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops and branches that glittered and swayed. Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow or of frost that outlightens all flowers till it fade. That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night than the day, nor the day than the night, Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such mirth had the madness and might in thee made, March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite.