29S DECEMBER. 



The drooping year is in the wane, 

 No longer floats the thistle-down : 



The crimson heath is wan and sere ; 



The sedge hangs withering by the mere. 

 And the broad fern is rent and brown. 



The owl sits huddling by himself, 



The cold has pierced his body thorough ; 



The patient cattle hang their head ; 



The deer are 'neath their winter-shed ; 



The ruddy squirrel 's in his bed, 



And each small thing within its burrow. 



In rich men's halls the fire is piled, 



A nd ermine robes keep out the weather ; 

 In poor men's huts the fire is low, 

 Through broken panes the keen winds blow, 

 And old and youug are cold together. 



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. 



