The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1850-05-21 00:00:00

WHITS.UN HOLIDAYS

How wearisome would be our lot
If all were night, and day were not!
The clouds that darken o'er the air
Would fill our souls with black despair;
Or even if the pallid moon
Rain'd beauty on the night's dim noon,
And, like a nun, with praying pale,
Seem'd peeping from her silver veil;
Or if the stars came twinkling out,
And beani'd and burn'd heaven all about,
Like flowers divine, ordained to lie
In the blue garden of the sky,
Waiting for some young angel ban
To cull them for a brighter lan
Still would existence prow e
A round of dull monot
If night were not, a all were day,
Our mortal life NV d pass away
One constant ne of light and glare,
Until the v sky and air
Would t s seem less pure and fair;
The p y hue of fleeting cloud
Wo seem as deathly as a shroud ;
Tl e sunny rays would stream in pain,
And pierce like arrows to the brain,
Until the tired and aching sight
Would shuddering shun the glowing light..
So nature wisely hath decreed
That night to day shall still succeed;
And so the various seasons range
In beautiful and ceaseless change.
Spring, like a virgin, shows the blossom
That blooms upon her holy bosom ;
Uncounted buds, like emeralds fair,
Shine forth amid her waving hair.
The Summer, like a luscious queen,
Pours forth her; nectarous hippocrene,
And waves aloft her goblet fill'd
With juice from golden fruit distill'd,
Whilst the rich crimson of the rose
Around her face a radiance throws.
Then comes dun Autumn with her spear,
Form'd of the barley's piercing. ear,
Slow follow'd by the loaded wain,
And laughing maid, and shouting swain,
And all things jovial, glad, and free,
That speak of prosperous jollity.
Old Winter bringeth up the rear
With frozen breath, and icy tear,
And shrivell'd mouth, and look aghast,
And hair blown backwards by the blast.
So night and day for ever pass,
Like shadows flitting o'er a glass,
And so the seasons fade and change,
More varied than the fancy's range;
For man was form'd for every mood,
And God hath order'd all for good.
So in the calendar we trace
At intervals a resting-place.
A sunny spot, where we awhile
May thoughts from graver things beguile,_
And spend a few delightful hours
In pleasure's gay and roseate bow'rs.
Their memory lives within the heart,
Their comings joyful hopes impart ;
They cheer our mind like needful rest,
And give to life a fresher zest.
Thus Whitsuntide doth aye appear
The happiest time of all the year,
Encircled with the means and ways
That lead to pleasure's devious maze.
With magic speed we soon may glance
At England, Ireland, Scotland, France;
The wonders of the wizard steam
Have more than realized youth's dream,
And made the Whitsun Festival
The "maddest, merriest time" of all!

We love to weave amid our rhyme
Some memories of the by-gone time,
Some t bonging how those long past away
Kept up the Whitson Holiday ;
For in these contrasts oft we see
The depths of true philosophy :
They show to us the changes vast
Between the present and the past,
And make us wonder what will be
The end of earthly destiny.
Our ancestors were rude but bold,
And many Whitsun games would hold ;
The pageant's costly show was blent
With rustic sports and merriment.
Then did they brew, and roast, and bake,
And all were welcome to partake ;
To distant places did they wend
To shake hands with an ancient friend,
And old and young alike did find
Some pastime pleasant to the mind.
In every parish then did stand
A church-house, where the festive band
Found, not a store of holy books,
But ladies, cooking-spits, and crooks;
And here the good housekeeper, met,
A portly and a merry set,
With open hearts and manners free,
And souls of "melting charity,"
That never closed the oaken door
Upon the wandering—helpless poor :
Nor whilst they met to freely spend,
Did they forget a better end:
To prove their feasts were not in vain,
Their common stock did oft maintain
Those children of their parents 'reft,
And to the care of strangers left ;
Thus did our ancestors provide
A source of joy for Whitsuntide !
They never felt a wish to roam
Some hundred miles away from home;
Three miles an hour was travelling then
But this we multiply by ten ;
Their waggons scarce could beat the snail,
Whilst now we oft outstrip the gale,
And, like a meteor of the sky,
O'er hill and vale away we fly ;
Naught now our onward course can bind,
We laugh at waves, and mock the wind,
But, whilst our actions all are fast,
Still let us think upon the past,
And keep alive within the heart
The rarest and the choicest part ;
•
Still let us cherish in our mind
Some wish to benefit our kind,
And, like-B. HYAM, form a plan
By which to aid our fellow-man.
What useful articles of dress
Are you most wishful to possess ?
Each thing you buy shall he a treasure,
And, if you wish it, made to measure.
At once your senses to astound,
Dress Coats HYAM offers for a pound ;
A much superior quality
At one pound eight from him you'll buy ;
If shillings four you will advance,
He'll better please your tasteful glance ;
Aad then, again, I'm sure you'll smile—
You'll have a coat in Paris style,
Padded with silk, of wool-dyed black,
Fitting like nature to your back,-
Adapted for each rank and mien,
For just one pound and seventeen ;