Or if not quite disposed to give,
Then freely buy, I pray,
Of the rich stores of wondrous art
Displayed for you to-day.
Work marvellously wrought, and rare
As beautiful you'll find;
With good plain, homely garments, too,
Of varied form and kind.
And lovely flowers, in sweet perfume,
Breathing delight and love;
Discoursing, in mute eloquence,
Of fadeless ones above.
Groups, too, of artificial flowers,
To serve when others die;
Like photos of dear absent friends,
Delighting heart and eye.
Presents there are for Boys and Girls,
And darling Pets at home,
And souvenir for Grandmamma,
If too infirm to come.
And, mingling with the festive scene,
Is music's witching voice,
Swelling, in harmony divine,
Man's spirit to rejoice.
Beneath the master hand of "Best"
The organ springs to life,
Like some roused monster in his lair,
Goaded to deadly strife.
Attuned to Angel sweetness, then,
And tremblings of delight,
It fills the dreamy marble Hall
With visions pure and bright.
Then merchant Princes, Tradesmen, too,
Dry business leave awhile;
And with your dear ones by your side,
With us an hour beguile.