Hortensius to his peacocks; Heliogabalus to his dishes of cocks-combs; and Domitian to his deliberations in what vase he may boil his huge turbot.  We have epicures as well as had our ancestors; and the wonted fires of Apicius and Sardanapalus may still live in St. James’s-street and Waterloo-place; but commend us to the board, where each guest, like a true feeler, brings half the entertainment along with him.  This brings us to notice Christmas, a Poem, by Edward Moxon, full of ingenuousness and good feeling, in Crabbe-like measure; but, captious reader, suspect not a pun on the poet of England’s hearth—­for a more unfortunate name than Crabbe we do not recollect.

Mr. Moxon’s is a modest little octavo, of 76 pages, which may be read between the first and last arrival of a Christmas party.  As a specimen, we subjoin the following:—­

  Hail, Christmas! holy, joyous time,
  The boast of many an age gone by,
  And yet methinks unsung in rhyme,
  Though dear to bards of chivalry;
  Nor less of old to Church and State,
  As authors erudite relate. 
  If so, my harp, thou friend to me,
  Thy chords I’ll touch right merrily—­

Then a fire-side picture of Christmas in the country:—­

  The doughty host has gather’d round
  Those most for wit and mirth renown’d,
  And soon each neighbouring Squire will be
  With all the world in charity—­
  Its cares and troubles all forgetting,
  Good-humour’d joke alone abetting. 
  ’Tis good and cheering to the soul
  To see the ancient wassail bowl
  No longer lying on its face,
  Or dusty in its hiding place. 
  It brings to mind a day gone by,
  Our fathers and their chivalry—­
  It speaks of courtly Knight and Squire,
  Of Lady’s love, and Dame, and Friar,
  Of times, (perchance not better now,)
  When care had less of wrinkled brow—­
  When she with hydra-troubled mien,
  Our greatest enemy, the Spleen,
  Was seldom, or was never seen.

  Now pledge they round each other’s name,
  And drink to Squire and drink to Dame,
  While here, more precious far than gold,
  Sits womanhood, with modest eye—­
  Glances to her the truth unfold,
  She shall not pass unheeded by. 
  T’was woman that with health did greet,
  When Vortigern did Hengist meet—­
  ’Twas fair Rowena, Saxon maid,
  In blue-ey’d majesty array’d,
  Presented ’neath their witching roll
  To British Chief the wassail bowl. 
  She touch’d to him, nor then in vain,
  He back return’d the health again. 
  Thus ’tis with feelings kind as true
  They drink the tribute ever due,
  Nor would they less, tho’ truth denied it,
  Their love for woman would decide it.