POETRY.

It had fallen from an unknown hand, In the home of the pine and myrtle, Far of in this Southern land.

And I know not whose hand had cast it, Or careless or rude with scorn, Whether pleased with a brighter berry, Or pricked with its guard of thorn.

But there it lay in the pathway, Poor sprig with its berries three, Like a waif or a stray from England, And it seemed as a message to me.

Then sudden there flashed a vision Of a Christmas far away, Of a firelight shed on a curtain red, And the shouts of the children at play; Then a fir-tree shone in the centre, And around it a wondering ring, Where the Snow King kisses the Fairy, And the Fairy frowns at the King. And the dances ! the valse! the polka!

And Sir Roger must wait his tarn ;

Feu with breath all aflame, the-great Snapdragon

came,

And h )1-5, blue all the tapers burn !

And awe is co 1 childish faces, And as in all things below,

You must first begin, if you wish to win, To suffer ; a fact we know So the Snow King puffs at his fingers, And the Fairy pities his pain, And had he now kissed her and not his blister; She would not have frowned again.

And so through the long, bright evening, Until all the games are played, And child-vows given (smile at them, Heaven!). Forgotten as soon as made.

For there must be kissing and cooing Of birds in the nest at play, As there must be wedding and wooing Of birds full-grown, some day.

And little Alice is sleeping Wide-mouthed in a wide arm-chair, One fat round arm fast keeping That idol with flaxen hair.

When hark ! Is it " ten" there striking?

And look ! Do the lights burn low ? Then sudden is heard the terrible word,

Away ! it is time to go !

And I started, and lo ! the holly Lay bright in the pathway there, With the dark-hued sheen of its prickly green Guarding its fruitage fair : And I love it, my sprig of holly, Though it boast but its berries three ; For whatever it seem to others, It was surely a message to me.

And dear as the mountains around:me, And dells where the waters run, And the peaks and pines, where for ever shines. The glow of a summer sun !

No mist in the soft-toned valley, No wind in the unstirred tree, No stain on the cloudless ether, No wave on the breathless sea!

Yet dearer to me that vision Of home, and of Christmas bells ! And it came to me all at the holly's call In the heart of the Esterels.

Christmas Day. A. G. R.