-
And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim,
Sees carven apes ever laughing at him!

Louder and wilder the merriment grows,
For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws!
And the dragon's roar,
As he paweth the floor,
And belcheth fire
In his demon ire,
When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose,
Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din--
Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin--
For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold,
With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold;
And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine
Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine!
"Come forth, come forth! it is high noon,"
Cries Hugh the seneschal;
"My masters, will ye ne'er have done?
Come forth unto the hall!"--

'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall:
Full many a trophy bedecks the wall
Of prowess in field and wood;
Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear
Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer--
But De Thorold's guests beheld nought there
That scented of human blood.
The mighty wassail horn suspended
From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended,
With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound,
Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed,
While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed,
As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound,
That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest,
And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast.

Sir Wilfrid's carven chair of state
'Neath the dais is gently elevate,--
But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride:
Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire's side,
And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall,
Sit by the tables along the wide hall,
Each with his platter, and stout drink-horn,--
They count on good cheer this Christmas morn!

Not long they wait, not long they wish--
The trumpet peals,--and the kingly dish,--
The head of the brawny boar,
Decked with rosemary and laurels gay,--
Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza,
As their fathers did, of yore!
And they point to the costard he bears in his mouth,
And vow the huge pig,
So luscious a fig,
Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South!

Strike up, strike up, a louder chime,
Ye minstrels in the loft!
Strike up! it is no fitting time
For drowsy strains and soft,--
When sewers threescore
Have passed the hall door,
And the