"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long;
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome- then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."
Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and
stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can
remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling-
the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the
hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the
sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the
fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit; as
the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant
fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.
Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land- though for me no
social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors,
nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold- yet I
feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy
looks of those around me.
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