Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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MY OWN FIRE-SIDE. |
 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
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MY OWN FIRE-SIDE.
It is a mystic circle that surrounds
Comforts and virtues never known beyond
Its hallowed limit.
SOUTHEY.
Comforts and virtues never known beyond
Its hallowed limit.
SOUTHEY.
Let others seek for empty joys,
At ball, or concert, rout or play;
Whilst, far from Fashion's idle noise,
Her gilded domes and trappings gay,
I while the wintry eve away,
'Twixt book and lute the hours divide;
And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee—my own fire-side!
At ball, or concert, rout or play;
Whilst, far from Fashion's idle noise,
Her gilded domes and trappings gay,
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'Twixt book and lute the hours divide;
And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee—my own fire-side!
My own fire-side! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,
And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide;
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own—my own fire-side!
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,
And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide;
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own—my own fire-side!
A gentle form is near me now;
A small, white hand is clasped in mine;
I gaze upon her placid brow,
And ask, what joys can equal thine:
A babe, whose beauty's half divine,
In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide;
Where may Love seek a fitter shrine,
Than thou—my own fire-side!
A small, white hand is clasped in mine;
I gaze upon her placid brow,
And ask, what joys can equal thine:
A babe, whose beauty's half divine,
In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide;
Where may Love seek a fitter shrine,
Than thou—my own fire-side!
What care I for the sullen roar
Of winds without, that ravage earth;
It doth but bid me prize the more
The shelter of thy hallowed hearth;—
To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth;
Then let the churlish tempest chide,
It cannot check the blameless mirth
That glads my own fire-side!
Of winds without, that ravage earth;
It doth but bid me prize the more
The shelter of thy hallowed hearth;—
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Then let the churlish tempest chide,
It cannot check the blameless mirth
That glads my own fire-side!
My refuge ever from the storm
Of this world's passion, strife, and care;
Though thunder-clouds the skies deform,
Their fury cannot reach me there;
There all is cheerful, calm, and fair;
Wrath, Envy, Malice, Strife, or Pride,
Hath never made its hated lair,
By thee—my own fire-side!
Of this world's passion, strife, and care;
Though thunder-clouds the skies deform,
Their fury cannot reach me there;
There all is cheerful, calm, and fair;
Wrath, Envy, Malice, Strife, or Pride,
Hath never made its hated lair,
By thee—my own fire-side!
Thy precincts are a charmed ring,
Where no harsh feeling dares intrude;
Where life's vexations lose their sting;
Where even grief is half subdued;
And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood.
Then, let the world's proud fool deride;
I'll pay my debt of gratitude
To thee—my own fire-side!
Where no harsh feeling dares intrude;
Where life's vexations lose their sting;
Where even grief is half subdued;
And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood.
Then, let the world's proud fool deride;
I'll pay my debt of gratitude
To thee—my own fire-side!
Shrine of my household deities;
Bright scene of home's unsullied joys;
To thee my burthened spirit flies,
When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys!
Thine is the bliss that never cloys;
The smile whose truth hath oft been tried;—
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys,
To thee—my own fire-side!
Bright scene of home's unsullied joys;
To thee my burthened spirit flies,
When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys!
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The smile whose truth hath oft been tried;—
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys,
To thee—my own fire-side!
Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be,
Let joy or grief my fate betide;
Be still an Eden bright to me,
My own—my own fire-side!
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be,
Let joy or grief my fate betide;
Be still an Eden bright to me,
My own—my own fire-side!
| Lyrics of the heart | |