Helvellyn's height with snows is white,
The forest branches bow and splinter;
No ripple breaks the frozen lakes,
Then shut my door on cold and winter.
On my hearth-dogs pile up the logs, —
Pile high, my boy; and down your throttle
Right freely pour my "thirty-four,"
And never spare the old man's bottle.
Leave all the rest to Him who best
Knows how to still the roar of ocean;
To calm the wind in wildest mind,
And hush the leaflets lightest motion.
Fear not to stay upon the day,
And count for gain each happy pleasure;
Be not above the game of love,
And featly tread the Christmas measure.
Let blood run cold when life grows old,
Stick now to skate and tennis-racquet,
Till westward-ho the sun-wheels go,
Then join the sports of frock and jacket.
When bright eyes smile, laugh back the while,
And find the nook where beauty lingers;
Steal golden charm from rounded arm,
Half-given, half-held, by fairy fingers.
