Moly
Has in an instant changed my nature wholly;
The past, with all its triumphs, is a trance,
My legs, once taught to kneel, incline to dance,
My voice, which to some holy psalm belongs,
Is twisting round into these carnal songs.
Alas! I'm lost! New thoughts my bosom swell;
Habakuk, Barebones, Cromwell, fare ye well.
Break up conventicles, I do insist,
Sing the doxology and be dismissed."

As he finishes the last line, the heavy roll of thunder is heard, and
suddenly the doors of a dungeon in the background fly open, from which
emerges the impersonation of Christmas, followed by the Queen of May.
Christmas is represented by a jolly, round-bellied, red-nosed, laughing
old fellow, dressed in pure white. His hair is thickly powdered, and his
face red with rouge. In his right hand he holds a huge mince-pie, which
ever and anon he gnaws with exquisite humour, and in his left is a bowl
of generous wassail, from which he drinks long and deeply. His brows are
twined with misletoe and ivy, woven together in a fantastic wreath, and
to his hair and different parts of his dress are attached long pendants
of glass, to represent icicles. As he advances to the right of the
stage, there descends from the awning above an immense number of small
fragments of white paper, substitutes for snow-flakes, with which that
part of the floor is soon completely covered.

The Queen of May takes her position on the left. She is dressed in a
robe of pure white, festooned with flowers, with a garland of white
roses twined with evergreen upon her brow. In her hand is held the
May-pole, adorned with ribbons of white, and blue, and red, alternately
wrapped around it, and surmounted with a wreath of various flowers. As
she assumes her place, showers of roses descend from above, envelope her
in their bloom, and shed a fresh fragrance around the room.

The Genius of Liberty points out the approaching figures to the Puritan,
and exclaims:

"Welcome, ye happy children of the earth,
Who strew life's weary way with guileless mirth!
Thus Joy should ever herald in the morn
On which the Saviour of the world was born,
And thus with rapture should we ever bring
Fresh flowers to twine around the brow of Spring.
Think not, stern mortal, God delights to scan,
With fiendish joy, the miseries of man;
Think not the groans that rend your bosom here
Are music to Jehovah's listening ear.