The room was panelled, with cornices of heavy carved
work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely
intermingled, and a row of black-looking portraits stared
mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich thought
faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite
a bow window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music
seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. I
listened, and found it proceeded from a band which I concluded to
be the Waits from some neighboring village. They went round the
house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the curtains to
hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper
part of the casement; partially lighting up the antiquated
apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and
aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I
listened and listened--they became more and more tender and
remote, and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the
pillow and I fell asleep.
CHRISTMAS DAY.
Dark and dull night, flie hence away,
And give the honor to this day
That sees December turn'd to May.
. . . . . . .
Why does the chilling winter's morne
Smile like a field beset with corn?
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne,
Thus on the sudden?--come and see
The cause why things thus fragrant be.
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