WINTER, 
231 
WINTER. 
And welcome art thou, melancholy time, 
That now surround’st my dwelling — with the sound 
Of winds that rush in darkness — the sublime 
Roar of drear woods. 
W. Howitt. 
No mark of vegetable life is seen. 
No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call, 
Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen, 
Save the lone redbreast on the moss-grown wall. 
Scott. 
A wreath for merry Christmas quickly twine, 
A wreath for the bright and sparkling wine. 
Though roses are dead. 
And their bloom is fled, 
Yet for Christmas a bonnie bonnie wreath we’ll twine. 
Away to the wood where the bright holly grows. 
And its red berries blush amid winter snows; 
Away to the ruin where the green ivy clings. 
And around the dark fane its verdure flings; 
Hey for the ivy and holly so bright. 
They are the garlands for Christmas night! 
Louisa Anne Twamley. 
