A night of snow the earth hath clad With virgin mantle chill; But in the sky the sun looks glad,-- And blythely o'er the hill, From fen and wold, troops many a guest To sing and smile at Thorold's feast. And oft they bless the bounteous sun That smileth on the snow; And oft they bless the generous one Their homes that bids them fro To glad their hearts with merry cheer, When Yule returns, in winter drear. How joyously the lady bells Shout--though the bluff north-breeze Loudly his boisterous bugle swells! And though the brooklets freeze, How fair the leafless hawthorn-tree Waves with its hoar-frost tracery! While sun-smiles throw o'er stalks and stems Sparkles so far transcending gems-- The bard would gloze who said their sheen Did not out-diamond All brightest gauds that man hath seen Worn by earth's proudest king or queen, In pomp and grandeur throned! Saint Leonard's monks have chaunted mass, And clown's and gossip's laughing face Is turned unto the porch,-- For now comes mime and motley fool, Guarding the dizened Lord Misrule With mimic pomp and march; And the burly Abbot of Unreason Forgets not that the blythe Yule season Demands his paunch at church; And he useth his staff While the rustics laugh,-- And, still, as he layeth his crosier about, Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt,-- And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim, Sees carven apes ever laughing at him! Louder and wilder the merriment grows, For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws! And the dragon's roar, As he paweth the floor, And belcheth fire In his demon ire, When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose, Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din-- Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin-- For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold, With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold; And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine! "Come forth, come forth! it is high noon," Cries Hugh the seneschal; "My masters, will ye ne'er have done? Come forth unto the hall!"-- 'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall: Full many a trophy bedecks the wall Of prowess in field and wood; Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer-- But De Thorold's guests beheld nought there That scented of human blood. The mighty wassail horn suspended From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended, With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound, Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed, While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed, As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound, That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest, And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast.