POETRY.
CHRISTMAS.
CHRIST'S star is bright, and yet our hearts are holden With dim forebodings, ghosts of gathering fear ; It is not as in days of childhood olden, When Christmas seemed all cheer.
Then thought we not of India, Church, or Ireland, Of Parnell-followers, or of party-wiles ; But played at forfeits round the enchanted fireland, And, losing, paid in smiles.
A naughty child was then put in the corner : Ah ! Mr. Speaker, could you put them now !
The shameless drone, the obstructive, and the scorner, With all the Irish row.
Life has moved onward. Grace is now a matron, Comely and prim, with children half-a-score ; While Jack of twenty charities is patron, M.P., and worse—a bore.
Things must move onward. "All the world's a garden ;" (As some one said), fresh flowers old places fill ; And change must come from Hatfield or from Hawarden, Think, say we, what we will.
So let it come, but temperate, not in fury, Not as from Birmingham our sages bawl ; But, like the wisdom of a British jury, Sober, and safe, and—small.
Then, slowly onward ! 'Twill need cautious steering Yet, statesmen, hating rashness, loathe delay ! Courage !- in-God's -name-forward, nothing-fearing !
England will follow if you lead the way. And 0, pale star of Christ, the Etst adorning, Guide us, late wanderers, on to peace and rest !
Still through the night of time comes in the morning, An], though dirk-shadowed, still the new is best.
A. G. 13.
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