THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON

Clouds like these, that, curling, take Forms of faces gone, and wake Many a lay from lips we loved, and make

London like a dream. CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Ben Jonson.

Love's old songs shall never die, Yet the new shall suffer proof: Love's old drink of Yule brew I Wassail for new love's behoof. Drink the drink I brew, and sing Till the berried branches swing, Till our song make all the Mermaid ring Yea, from rush to roof.

FINALE.

Christmas loves this merry, merry place j Christmas saith with fondest face,

Brightest eye, brightest hair:

• Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace ;

Rare ! '

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 808. Chorus from 'sltalanta '

VVTHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,

^ The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

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