All precious things, discovered late,
To those who seek them turn up trumps.
Charity works with kindly fate,
The heart in her soft bosom thumps.
She travels under winter skies--
She stayeth not for storm or shocks--
Celestial Grace with tender eyes,
And loving lips, and golden locks.
She comes, well-knowing what she seeks;
She breaks the hedge, she enters there:
Love's flush illumes her maiden cheeks;
She hears Yule's chimes upon the air:
She holds aloft that mystic stalk,
With white globes decked, to lovers dear;
"Now, Father Christmas, wake and walk!"
She whispers in the "Beauty's" ear.