od
Passed from his chair, midst looks of love
That showed how truly was enwove
Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude
For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude.

The broad hall-doors were open cast,
And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed.
Yet, was the crowning hour unflown--
Enjoyment's crowning hour!--
A signal note the pipe hath blown,
And a maiden at the door
Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush,
To bring the sacred missel-bush.

Gaily a younker leads the fair,
Proud of his dimpled, blushing care:
All clap their hands, both old and young,
And soon the misseltoe is hung
In the mid-rafters, overhead;
And, while the agile dance they thread,
Such honey do the plough-lads seize
From lips of lasses as the bees
Ne'er sip from sweetest flowers of May.

All in the rapture of their play,--
While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe,
And merrily their light feet trip,--
Leave we the simple happy throng
Their mirth and rapture to prolong.

THE
BARON'S YULE FEAST.

A
Christmas Rhyme.

CANTO III.

Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller!
Of late, thy dungeon-harpings were
Of discontent and wrong;
And we, the Privileged, were banned
For cumber-grounds of fatherland,
In thy drear prison-song.

What fellowship hast thou with times
When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes
At feast, in feudal hall,--
And peasant churls, a saucy crew,
Fantastic o'er their wassail grew,
Forgetful of their thrall?--

Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,--
And with the homely Past compare
Your tinselled show and state!
Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold
On human hearts so firm a hold
For ye, and yours, create
As they possessed, whose breasts though rude
Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood
For all who toiled, through youth and age,
T' enrich their force-won heritage!

Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride
Secure, ere ye begin to chide!
Then, lordlings, though ye may discard
The measures I rehearse,
Slight not the lessons of the bard--
The moral of his verse.--

But _we_ will dare thy verse to chide!
Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide,
And taunt our wretchedness
With visioned feast, and song, and dance,--
While, daily, our grim heritance
Is famine and distress?

Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern,
Never from Suffering's cause to turn,
But--to the end of life