IN MEMORIAM. CANTO CIII.; CANTO CIV.

“The time draws near the birth of Christ;

The moon is hid, the night is still;

A single church below the hill

Is pealing, folded in the mist.

“This holly by the cottage-eave

To-night, ungathered shall it stand;

We live within the stranger’s land,

And strangely falls our Christmas eve.

“Our father’s dust is left alone

And silent under other snows:

There in due time the woodbine blows,

The violet comes, but we are gone.”

Tennyson.

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