DECEMBER. 



Oh, poverty is disconsolate ! 



Its pains are many, its foes are strong : 

 The rich man in his jovial cheer, 

 Wishes 'twas winter through the year ; 

 The poor man 'mid his wants profound, 

 With all his little children round, 



Prays God that winter be not long ! 



One silent night hath passed, and lo ! 



How beautiful the earth is now ! , 

 All aspect of decay is gone, 

 The hills have put their vesture on, 



And clothed is the forest bough. 



Say not 'tis an unlovely time ! 



Turn to the wide, white waste thy view ; 

 Turn to the silent hills that rise 

 In their cold beauty to the skies ; 



And to those skies intensely blue. 



Silent, not sad, the scene appeareth ; 



And fancy, like a vagrant breeze, 

 Ready a-wing for flight, doth go 

 To the cold northern land of snow. 



Beyond the icy Orcades. 

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