But nought care we, though o'er the wold

The winter lays his finger cold;

We still enjoy the roughest day,

And find December good as May.

Pile up the fire! the wandering wind,
Although it nip, is not unkind;

And dark midwinter days can bring
As many pleasures as the spring.

If not the flow'ret budding fair,

And mild effulgence of the air,
They give the glow of indoor mirth,
And social comfort round the hearth.

Pile

up the fire! When storms are rude,

We feel the joy of gratitude;
And thankful for the good possess'd,

Have welcomes for the poorest guest.

The gloomy Winter-who is he?

I never saw him on the lea,

I never met him on my path,

Or trow'd old stories of his wrath.

The Winter is a friend of mine,
His step is light, his eyeballs shine;
His cheek is ruddy as the morn,

He carols like the lark in corn.

His tread is brisk upon the snows—
His pulses gallop as he goes;

He hath a smile upon his lips,

With songs and welcome, jests and quips.

A charitable soul is he,

His heart is large, his hand is free;
He brings the beggar to his door,

And feeds the needy from his store.

The friend of every living thing,

Old Winter-sire of youthful Spring-
The glooms upon his brow that dwell,

Are glories when we know them well.

'Tis he that feeds the April buds,

'Tis he that clothes the Summer woods; 'Tis he makes plump the Autumn grain, And loads with wealth the creaking wain.

Pile

up

the fire! and ere he go,

Our blessings on his head shall flow.

The hale old Winter, bleak and sere,

The friend and father of the

year.

N

XV.

THE POPLAR LEAVES.

I.

On the topmost twig where the winds blow free, There were three leaves on the poplar tree,

Lonely! Lonely!

The summer had gone, and left them there,
To crimple and sigh 'mid the branches bare,

Lonely! Lonely!

Down by the fateful breezes whirled,

On the cold earth crisp and curled,

Amid the grass by the night-dews sodden, All their old companions lay ;—

Alas for the glory past away

And the strength down trodden!