My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture
of which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants. The room
was panelled with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and
grotesque faces were strangely intermingled; and a row of black looking
portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich
though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite
a bow window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed
to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and found
it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the waits from some
neighbouring village. They went round the house, playing under the
windows.
I drew aside the curtains, to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams
fell through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the
antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and
aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I listened and
listened--they became more and more tender and remote, and, as they
gradually died away, my head sank upon the pillow and I fell asleep.
Christmas Day
Dark and dull night, flie hence away,
And give the honour to this day
That Sees December turn'd to May.
. . . . . . . .
Why does the chilling winter's morne
Smile like a field beset with corn?
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne,
Thus on the sudden?--Come and see
The cause why things thus fragrant be.
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