There's silence in the harvest field;

And blackness in the mountain glen,

And cloud that will not pass away
From the hill tops for many a day;

And stillness round the homes of men.

The old tree hath an older look;

The lonesome place is yet more dreary; They go not now, the young and old, Slow wandering on by wood and wold; The air is damp, the winds are cold,

And summer paths are wet and weary.

The drooping year is in the wane,

No longer floats the thistle down;

The crimson heath is wan and sere;
The sedge hangs withering by the mere,

And the broad fern is rent and brown.

WINTER.

The owl sits huddling by himself,

The cold has pierced his body thorough;

The patient cattle hang their head;

The deer are 'neath their winter shed;

The ruddy squirrel's in his bed,

And each small thing within its burrow.

In rich men's halls the fire is piled,

And ermine robes keep out the weather;

In poor men's huts the fire is low,

Through broken panes the keen winds blow, And old and young are cold together.

Oh, poverty is disconsolate!—

Its pains are many, its foes are strong: The rich man in his jovial cheer,

year;

Wishes 't was winter through the

The poor man, 'mid his wants profound,

With all his little children round,

Prays God that winter be not long!

One silent night hath passed, and lo!
How beautiful the earth is now!

All aspect of decay is gone,

The hills have put their vesture on,

And clothed is the forest bough.

Say not 't is an unlovely time!

Turn to the wide, white waste thy view;

Turn to the silent hills that rise

In their cold beauty to the skies ;

And to those skies intensely blue.

Silent, not sad, the scene appeareth;

And fancy, like a vagrant breeze,

Ready a-wing for flight, doth go
To the cold northern land of snow,
Beyond the icy Orcades,

The land of ice, the land of snow,

The land that hath no summer flowers

Where never living creature stood

The wild, dim, polar solitude:

How different from this land of ours!

Walk now among the forest trees,—

Said'st thou that they were stripped and bare?

Each heavy bough is bending down

With snowy leaves and flowers-the crown
Which Winter regally doth wear.

'Tis well-thy summer garden ne'er

Was lovelier with its birds and flowers,

Than is this silent place of snow,

With feathery branches drooping low,

Wreathing around thee, shadowy bowers!

MARY HOWITT.

THIS is now the winter time,

My merry gentlemen,

Yule logs are burning in your hall,
Fair forms are circling in the ball,
And cups are filled with purple wine
To aid the pudding and the chine.
This is now the winter time;

Remember, gentles, then,

That none shall starve while you shall dine;
That none shall thirst who grow the vine.

Yet give no alms in mean award,

But spread the just, the well-earned board.

WINTER.

This is now the winter time,
My noble gentlemen.

This is now the winter time,

My reverend clergymen ;

Christ came to save in winter time,
And not in summer's sultry prime:
And He your pattern sure must be,
When glows with red the holly tree.
This is now the winter time,

Remember, clerks all, then,
That Christ in winter came to save
Not only souls, but bodies brave.

The bread His body, and the wine
His blood. Then spread the feast divine;
This is now the winter time,

My Christian clergymen.

This is now the winter time,

My honest working men,

"Weave truth with trust," ye weavers, then
And "draw straight furrows," farming men,
And with good grace and no hard knocks—
Take justice for a Christmas box.
This is now the winter time,

Remember, workers, then,

That none should starve while others have.
That Christ in winter came to save,
And, but in no alms-taking way,

Accept your rights on New Year's day.

This is now the winter time,

My gallant working men.

GOODWYN BARMBY.

WOULD that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites

A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving the memory help when she could weave
A crown for Hope!-I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve.
Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring,

The counter Spirit found in some gay church
Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch

In which the linnet or the thrush might sing,

Merry and loud, and safe from prying search, Strains offered only to the genial spring.