In wretched surroundings of wearisome woe;
Let innocent joys in their sweetness abound
And silvery cadence in melody start,
Till rapturous fortunes with pleasure surround
The aims of the soul and the hopes of the heart.

"Let youth with its yearning engage
All vigorous passion that lives in the breast,
While tearful remembrance of tottering age
Finds halcyon harbors of comforting rest;
Let silver of years with the ardor of youth
Be going again through the temple of joy,
While palms of amusement and laurels of truth
Encircle the hearts of the maiden and boy.

"Let happiness reign with the race;
There's never a reason for sorrowful tears,
Kriss Kringle has come with his fatherly face
To comfort complaining humanity's fears;
Let music go 'round and the beautiful smile
Bring gladsome delight to the bosom of bliss,
Till gentle enjoyments unbroken beguile
The souls of the sad with their coveted kiss.

"Though crystalline frost on the trees,
Though ice on the river and snow on the plain
Are freezing the breath of the shivering breeze.
The heart has Nepenthe for all of its pain;
For Christmas is king, and his bountiful hand
Is giving its treasures to mountain and lea,
And gentleness rules on the billowy strand,
And reigns in the far-away isles of the sea."

This is the carol that swells
Over the meadows and brakes,
From brazen throats of the pealing bells
When Christmas morning wakes.

YEARS THAT ARE TO BE.

Wild years that are to be
The sad completion of my weary life,
In ghostly mantles of despairing strife
Your phanton dimness darkly shadows me!
Gaunt demons dancing from your horrid halls
Entwine my soul in gloomy arms of woe,
While mystic fancies to my madness show
The monsters on your walls.

Your forms are skeletons,
Whose bony hands with mortal fingers play,
Where grinning skulls are heaping on the way,
And airy specters meet the timid ones;
Death drops his arrows from your sullen skies,
Destruction dances in your noisome shades,
And in the dreadful darkness of your glades
The horrid shriekings rise.

There in your cycles are
Dark valleys where my weary feet must go,
Though devils of disaster hurl and throw
Their awful sorrows from the fortunes far;
No hands of pleasure can presume to part
The clouded curtains