December. 
103 
THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY. 
The rose it is the love of June, 
The violet that of Spring, 
But all those faithless fading flowers, 
That take the South-wind’s wing, 
As craven blooms I hold in scorn, 
The holly’s the wreath for a Christmas morn ! 
Its berries are red as a maiden's lip, 
Its leaves are of changeless green, 
And anything changeless now, I wiss, 
Is somewhat rare to be seen !— 
The holly which fall and frost has borne, 
The holly’s the wreath for a Christmas mom ! 
Its edges are set in keen array ; 
They are fairy weapons, bared ; 
And, in an unlucky world like ours, 
’Tis well to be prepared. 
Like helm on crest of warrior borne, 
The holly's the wreath for a Christmas mom ! 
The holly it is no green-house plant, 
But grows in the common air ; 
In the peasant’s lattice, the castle hall, 
Its green leaves alike are there. 
Its lesson should in mind be borne— 
The holly's the wreath for a Christmas morn ! 
Anon. 
