SAINT AGNES' EVE.

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SAINT AGNES' EVE.

DEEP on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:

My breath to heaven like vapor goes;
May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,

Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord:
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soiled and dark,
To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper's earthly spark,

To yonder argent round;

So shows my soul before the Lamb,

My spirit before Thee;

So in mine earthly house I am,

To that I hope to be.

Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Through all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors;

The flashes come and go;

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THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES.

All heaven bursts her starry floors,

And strews her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates
Roll back, and far within

For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,

One sabbath deep and wide -
A light upon the shining sea—
The Bridegroom with his bride!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES.

SAINT AGNES' Eve,

- ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith..

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

NYSON.

COUNTRY SLEIGHING.

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze,
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries,

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He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

JOHN KEATS.

grass,

d

er he

COUNTRY SLEIGHING.

(A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.)

IN January, when down the dairy
The cream and clabber freeze,
When snowdrifts cover the fences over,
We farmers take our ease.

At night we rig the team,
And bring the cutter out;

Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it,
And heap the furs about.

Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens,
And sleighs at least a score;

There John and Molly, behind, are jolly,

Nell rides with me, before.

All down the village street

We range us in a row:

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COUNTRY SLEIGHING.

Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle,

And over the crispy snow!

The windows glisten, the old folks listen To hear the sleigh-bells pass;

The fields grow whiter, the stars are brig The road is smooth as glass.

Our muffled faces burn,

The clear north wind blows cold, The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, Each in her lover's hold.

Through bridge and gateway we're shooti

way,

Their tollman was too slow!

He'll listen after our song and laughter

As over the hill we go.

The girls cry, "Fie! for shame!

Their cheeks and lips are red, And so with kisses, kisses, kisses, They take the toll instead.

Still follow, follow! across the hollow
The tavern fronts the road.

Whoa, now! all steady! the host is ready
He knows the country mode!

The irons are in the fire,

The hissing flip is got;
So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it,
And sip it while 'tis hot.

COUNTRY SLEIGHING.

Push back the tables, and from the stables
Bring Tom, the fiddler, in;

All take your places, and make your graces,

And let the dance begin.

The girls are beating time

To hear the music sound;

Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it,
And swing your partners round.

Last couple toward the left! all forward!
Cotillions through, let's wheel:

First tune the fiddle, then down the middle
In old Virginia Reel.

Play Money Musk to close,

Then take the "long chassé,"

While in to supper, supper, supper,

The landlord leads the way.

The bells are ringing, the ostlers bringing

The cutters up anew;

The beasts are neighing; too long we're staying;

The night is half-way through.

Wrap close the buffalo-robes,

We're all aboard once more;

Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle,
Away from the tavern-door.

So follow, follow, by hill and hollow,

And swiftly homeward glide.

What midnight splendor! how warm and tender

The maiden by your side!

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