



<s ye in your placid iness 
8, yet frail-—and, clasping his chill hands, 
3iesses your pencill’d beauty. ’Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing’d gale, 
And freer dreams of heaven. 
—-——_ 
‘HE MISTLE TOE 
BY BARRY CORNWALL 
WHEN winter nights grow long, 
And winds without blow cold, 
We sit in a ring round the warm wo od-fire, 
And listen to stories old! 
And ae (as maids should be.) 
When ring g in boughs of the laurel-tree 
e evergreen tree ! 
faa cle stat phy not we? 
vhen night falls down, 
ke wintry sun, 
come in to the 




