Joshua Sylvester' took his
version--"there is placed immediately under the title a woodcut purporting
to be a representation of the site of the Holy Well, Palestine; but the
admiration excited thereby for the excellent good taste of the printer is
too soon alas! dispelled, for between the second and third stanzas we see
another woodcut representing a feather-clad-and-crowned negro seated on a
barrel, smoking--a veritable ornament of a tobacconists' paper."

One of the finest carols written of late years is Miss Louise Imogen
Guiney's _Tryste Noel_. It is deliberately archaic, and (for reasons
hinted at above) I take deliberate archaism to be about the worst fault a
modern carol-writer can commit. Also it lacks the fine simplicity of
Christina Rossetti's _In the bleak midwinter_. I ought to dislike it,
too, for its sophisticated close. Yet its curious rhythm and curious
words haunt me in spite of all prejudice:--

"The Ox he openeth wide the Doore
And from the Snowe he calls her inne;
And he hath seen her smile therefore,
Our Ladye without sinne.
Now soone from Sleepe
A Starre shall leap,
And soone arrive both King and Hinde:
_Amen, Amen_;
But O the Place cou'd I but finde!

"The Ox hath husht his Voyce and bent
Trewe eye of Pity ore the Mow;
And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,
The Blessed lays her Browe.
Around her feet
Full Warme and Sweete
His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell;
_Amen, Amen_;
But sore am I with vaine Travel!

"The Ox is Host in Juda's stall,
And Host of more than onely one,
For close she gathereth withal
Our Lorde, her little Sonne.
Glad Hinde and King
Their Gyfte may bring,
But wou'd to-night my Teares were there;
_Amen, Amen_;
Between her Bosom and His hayre!"

The days are short. I return from this Christmas ramble and find it high
time to light the lamp and pull the curtains over my Cornish Window.

"The days are sad--it is the Holy tide:
The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
And through the sunset of this purple cup
They will resume the roses of their prime,
And the old Dead will hear us and wake up,
Pass with dim