Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1835.pdf/12

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And above each rusty helmet Waved a new and cheering plume, A branch of crimson berries, And the latest rose in bloom.

And the white and pearly misletoe Hung half concealed o’er head, I remember one sweet maiden, Whose cheek it dyed with red. The morning waked with carols,* A young and joyous band Of small and rosy songsters, Came tripping hand in hand.

And sang beneath our windows, Just as the round red sun Began to melt the hoar-frost, And the clear cold day begun.

And at night the aged harper Played his old tunes o’er and o’er; From sixteen up to sixty, All were dancing on that floor.

Those were the days of childhood, The buoyant and the bright; When hope was life’s sweet sovereign, And the heart and step were light.

I shall come again—a stranger To all that once I knew, For the hurried steps of manhood From life’s flowers have dash’d the dew.

I yet may ask their welcome, And return from whence I came; But a change is wrought within me, They will not seem the same.

For my spirits are grown weary, And my days of youth are o’er, And the mirth of that glad season Is what I can feel no more.

Ivy, holly, and misletoe, Give me a penny, and let me go.
 * This is one of those pretty customs that yet remain at a due distance from London—London, that Thalaba of all observances. I remember once being awakened by a band of children coming up the old beech avenue, singing carols with all their heart. The tune was monotonous enough, and as to time, I will say nothing on the subject. Still the multitude of infant voices, and the open air, and the distance, gave a singularly wild and sweet effect to the chant of the childish company. The words, which I subjoin, had a practical tendency.