Part 5 (1/2)

Bells, joyous bells of the Christmas-time, Dear is the song of your welcome chime; Dear is the burden that softly wells From your joyous throats, O tolling bells!

Dear is the message sweet you bind Dove-like to wings of the wafting wind.

You tell how the Yule-king cometh forth From his home in the heart of the icy North; On his Eastern steeds how rusheth on The wind-G.o.d of storms, Euroclydon; How his trumpet strikes to the pallid stars That shrink from the mad moon's silver bars, Where the cold wind tortures the sobbing sea, And the chill sleet pierces the pinioned lea, As the snow king hurls from his frozen zone The fragments fast of a tumbled throne.

But what is the song, O silver bells, You sing of the ferny Austral dells, Of the bracken height, and the sylvan stream, And the breezy woodland's summer dream, Lulled by the lute of the slow sweet rills In the trembling heart of the great grave hills?

Ah, what is the song that you sing to me Of the soft blue isles of our s.h.i.+mmering sea, Where the slow tides sleep, and a purple haze Fringes the skirts of the windless bays,

That, ringed with a circlet of beauty fair, Start in the face of the dreamer there; O, what is the burden of your sweet chimes, Bells of the golden Christmas times?

You sing of the summer gliding down From the stars that gem bright heaven's crown; Of the flowers that fade in the autumn sere, And the sunlit death of the old, old year.

Of the sweet South wind that sobs above The gra.s.s-green grave of our buried love: No bitter dirge from the stormy flow Of a moaning sea,--ah! no, no, no!

But a sweet farewell, and a low soft hymn Under the beautiful moons that swim Over the silver seas that toss Their foam to thy shrine, O Southern Cross!

O, bright is the burden of your sweet chimes, Bells of the joyous Christmas times!

You bring to the old hearts throbbing slow The beautiful dreams of the long ago; Remembrance sweet of the olden Yule, When hearts beat high in life's young school.

Ah, haply now, as they list to your chimes, Will the voices rise of the olden times, Till the wings of peace brood over the hours Slipping like streams through sleepy bowers, While you whisper the story loved of One Who suffered for us--the sad sweet Son-- Who taught that afflictions, sent in love, Chasten the soul for the realms above.

_WOOL IS UP._

Earth o'erflows with nectared gladness, All creation teems with joy; Banished be each thought of sadness, Life for me has no alloy.

Fill a b.u.mper!--drain a measure, Pewter! goblet! tankard! cup!

Testifying thus our pleasure At the news that ”Wool is up.”

'Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans, Subtly speeds the living fire; Who shall tell what wild emotions Spring from out that thridden wire?

”Jute is lower--copper weaker,”

This will break poor neighbour Jupp; But for me, I shout ”Eureka!”

Wealth is mine--for wool is up!

What care I for jute or cotton, Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax!

Reeds like these are often rotten, Turn to rods for owners' backs.

Fortune! ha! I have thee holden In what Scotia calls a ”grup,”

All my fleeces now are golden, Full troy weight--for wool is up!

I will dance the gay fandango (Though to me its steps be strange), Doubts and fears, you all can hang go!

I will cut a dash on 'Change.

Atra Cura, you will please me By dismounting from my crup-- Per--you no more shall tease me, Pray get down--for wool is up!

Jane shall have that stylish bonnet Which my scanty purse denied; Long she set her heart upon it, She shall wear it now with pride.

I will buy old Dumper's station, Reign as king at Gerringhup, For my crest a bust of Jason, With this motto, ”Wool is up.”

I will keep a stud extensive; Bolter, here! I'll have those greys, Those Sir George deemed too expensive, You can send them--with the bays.

Coursing! I should rather think so; Yes, I'll take that ”Lightning” pup; Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so, I can stand it--wool is up!