104

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow;
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

He went to the windows of those, who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever be breathed, wherever he stepped,

By the light of the morn, were seen

Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;

There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there,
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,

"Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher, I'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they've left for me

Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"

GREECE.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

LAND of the brave! where lie inurned
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,

In whom the fire of valour burned,
And blazed upon the battle's fray;
Land where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopylæ of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Hellas' consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sung;

Till every grove and every hill,
And every stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Shall glory gild thy clime no more?

Her banner float above thy waves
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm

To break the fetter and the chain;
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls! the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The light which beamed on Marathon,
Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play :
And thou art but a shadow now,

With helmet shattered, spear in rust;
Thine honour but a dream, and thou
Despised, degraded, in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume;

When the loud chant of triumph told,

How fatal was the despot's doom?
The bold three hundred-where are they,
Who died on battle's gory breast?

Tyrants have trampled on the clay,

Where death has hushed them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill,

A glory shines of ages fled;