of a metrical essay, composed
chiefly of imperfect and immature pieces:--the ambition to contribute
towards the fund of Christmas entertainment, in which agreeable labour I
see many popular names engaged,--and among them, one, the most
deservedly popular in the literature of the day. The favour with which
an influential portion of the press has received my 'Prison Rhyme'
emboldens me to take this step; and if the flagellation of criticism be
not too keenly dealt upon me for the imperfections in the few pages that
follow, I will be content, in this instance, to expect no praise.

134, _Blackfriars Road_,

_Dec. 20. 1845_.

THE
BARON'S YULE FEAST.

A
Christmas Rhyme.

CANTO I.

Right beautiful is Torksey's hall,[1]
Adown by meadowed Trent;
Right beautiful that mouldering wall,
And remnant of a turret tall,
Shorn of its battlement.

For, while the children of the Spring
Blush into life, and die;
And Summer's joy-birds take light wing
When Autumn mists are nigh;
And soon the year--a winterling--
With its fall'n leaves doth lie;
That ruin gray--
Mirror'd, alway,
Deep in the silver stream,
Doth summon weird-wrought visions vast,
That show the actors of the past
Pictured, as in a dream.

Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes,
The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise,
Till the full pageant bright--
A throng of warrior-barons bold,
Glittering in burnished steel and gold,
Bursts on my glowing sight.

And, mingles with the martial train,
Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain,
On palfrey and jennet--
That proudly toss the tasselled rein,
And daintily curvet;
And war-steeds prance,
And rich plumes glance
On helm and burgonet;
And lances crash,
And falchions flash
Of knights in tourney met.

Fast fades the joust!--and fierce forms frown
That man the leaguered tower,--
Nor quail to scan the kingly crown
That leads the leaguering power.

Trumpet and "rescue" ring!--and, soon,
He who began the strife
Is fain to crave one paltry boon:--
The thrall-king begs his life!

Our fathers and their throbbing toil
Are hushed in pulseless death;
Hushed is the dire and deadly broil--
The tempest of their wrath;--
Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil
Is thine, O sateless Grave!
Songs of their brother-hours shall foil
Thy triumph o'e