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CHUISTMA9 TIME. 



DEC. 31. St. Sylvester, pope and conf. a.d. 335. 

 St. Columba, virgin and martyr, 258. 

 St. Melania the younger, 439. 

 Vigil of Epiphany, or New Year's Eve. 



Obs. St. Sylvester was Bishop of Rome, and succeeded Miltiades 

 in the papacy in 314. Sylvester is accounted the author of several 

 rites and ceremonies of the Romish church, as asylums, unctions, 

 palls, corporals, mitres, &c. He died in 334. 



Gigantic Turcroea Turcroea gigantea fl. 

 This is a large hothouse plant : it continues in blow till January. 



This is the last day of the old year, and, Christmas festivities 

 continuing, people generally sit up and see the old year out, as they 

 call it, and beguile the long night with the merriment of the season. 

 The religious, also, keep the Vigil of the Epiphany all night, and it 

 is still customary in some places to sit up in the illuminated church 

 all night, ringing the bells at seasonable intervals. 



Hark ! how the merry bells from every steeple 



Sound the glad New Year's tidings, while the air. 



Freed from nocturnal mischief by the sound. 



And pure as breath of Heaven, seems to echo 



From every rock and dell, and leafless wood, 



The faint response of this sweet sonnerie. • 



The minstrel chorus, with the tuneful Pipe, 



The gay Guitar, with sweetly mellow Lute, 



And Lyre more clear than Phoebus ever strung, 



By their rathe wakes now scare the spirits of night, 



And make e'en wintry darkness safe as day. 



That spreads her black couch for the newborn year, 



In joyous lively sweete expectancy. 



Our altars now are lighted, at each shrine 



A taper burns to every patron saint, 



And every storypainted window dim 



Can tell its saintlie tales in color'd scenes. 



Waiting the octave of that holy dawn, 



When on the darkness of the longlost world 



Th' effulgent light of Heaven again was shed. 



All night we keep our watches, but ah ! now 



Another year rolls round life's airy spiral. 



And bears us closer to the fearful verge, 



When we no more can make the annual rounds 



Lesser and less towards the top, and then 



We fall to right or left. 0, holy angels, 



My constant guard, protect my waning days, 



For every New Year's Chime's an annual Clock 



That says, Thou hastenest to eternity. 



Anthologia4 



