Poems (Angier)/The Old-Fashioned Fire
THE OLD-FASHIONED FIRE.
A song for the fire, the old-fashioned fire,With its andirons made of brass, iron, or wire;The tongs and the shovel, that shine like pure gold,The bellows that children love dearly to hold;While, guarding the sitting-room carpet with care,Stands a high lattice fender, with sentinel air.
The dry chestnut wood, as it snaps out a spark,How it rings, like a pistol popped off at a mark;While the roar of the flame, as higher it rises,Would deafen the judge in a court of assizes;And O! how forgetful a man must become,If he cannot remember the tea-kettle's hum,
As it hangs on the crane, just over the blaze,And swings on the hook,—like a song of old daysWill its murmur still linger on memory's earTill all is forgot, I was wont to hold dear! But brightest of all, round this old-fashioned hearthWere once beaming fair faces, no more seen on earth.
But their memory comes o'er me, like songs and sweet flowers,To gladden my spirit in sorrow's dark hours;Though welcome their presence, not long may it stay,For like song and sweet flower, they have faded away!Then a song for the fire, the old-fashioned fire,Though stove, grate, and furnace, our moderns admire.
I love and I long for the old-fashioned days,When all kind thoughts seemed warmed into life by its blaze;And O! how I yearn for a sight of that home,From whose cheerful hearth-side no more would I roam;But—my lamp's going out, and I've broken my lyre,While tuning its strings by this old-fashioned fire.