POEMS.

THE CHRISTMAS WREATH.

COME, bring us gay wreaths for the Banquet-hall,
Where the festal melodies softly fall;

Where fairy-like feet shall so swiftly glance,

And lovely forms flit through the joyous dance:
Haste-bring us bright wreaths of the fairest flowers,—
But the rose blooms only in summer bowers;

The lily and wood-bine, so fair and frail,
Scent only the breath of the summer-gale;

And the glory and light of each floral gem
Have flown from the withered and leafless stem,
And the fragrance and beauty around them cast,
Have shrunk and died 'neath the wintry blast-
Like the parasite-friends that, smiling, crowd
Round our path when life's sky is without a cloud,

And bask in the sunny and cheering ray,
But, if tempests arise, flee far away,

And coldly and heartlessly then deride

The beings they worshipped when power, and pride,
And wealth, and the world's renown were theirs:
Such feeling no change of fortune bears;

But, like birds of passage, that take their flight
From our chilly zone to climes more bright,
When winter around us his mantle flings,
They swiftly spread their radiant wings

For a sunnier shore, and hover there;

But, when the land shall bloom bright and fair,
Then back they flee with rejoicing song,
With selfish heart and flattering tongue.

Then are there no flowers a wreath to twine
For the festive cheer and the sparkling wine?
No emblem-chaplet to deck the hall
Where triumphant melodies sweetly fall?
No garland to nestle 'mid golden hair,
Or in raven-braids over foreheads fair?