Then, as the charm increases, he continues in a feebler voice:
“Curse on the tempter's art! that heathenish 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.
Formed by His power, the children of His love,
Man's happiness delights the Sire above;
While the light mirth which from his spirit springs
Ascends like incense to the King of kings.”
Christmas, yawning and stretching himself, then roars out in a merry, lusty voice:
“My spirit rejoices to hear merry voices,
With a prospect of breaking my fast,
For with such a lean platter, these days they call latter[34]
Were very near being my last.
“In that cursed conventicle, as chill as an icicle,
I caught a bad cold in my head,
And some impudent vassal stole all of my wassail,
And left me small beer in its stead.
“Of all that is royal and all that is loyal
They made a nice mess of mince-meat.
With their guns and gunpowder, and their prayers that are louder,
But the de'il a mince-pie did I eat.