Since he I love is far away,
O'er forest, river, brake, and glen,
And distant, too, perchance the day,
When I shall see him once again.
[1] "Till now some nine moons wasted."--SHAKSPEARE.
* * * * *
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
_(For the Mirror.)_
"Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?"
SHAKSPEARE'S _Henry the Eighth._
Since, my dear readers, even in this season of busy festivity I can
spare a few moments to write for your gratification, I venture to hope
you will spare a few to read for mine.
And so here we are, once again on tiptoe for a merry Christmas and a
happy new year. My good friends, especially my fair friends, permit me
to wish you both. Yes, Christmas is here--Christmas, when winter and
jollity, foul weather and fun, cold winds and hot pudding, good frosts
and good fires, are at their meridian! Christmas! With what dear
associations is it fraught! I remember the time when I thought that word
cabalistical; when, in the gay moments of youth, it seemed to me a
mysterious term for every thing that is delightful; and such is the
force of early associations, that even now I cannot divest myself of
them.
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