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81
THE FIRST FIRE.
Dearest, to-night upon our Hearth
See the first fire of Autumn leap:
Oh, first that we with festal Mirth
For loving Memory keep!
Sweet Fairy of the Fireside, come
And guard our altar-flame of Home!
See the first fire of Autumn leap:
Oh, first that we with festal Mirth
For loving Memory keep!
Sweet Fairy of the Fireside, come
And guard our altar-flame of Home!
Without, October breathes the night—
Cold dews below, cold stars on high;
The chilly cricket sees our light
Reach welcoming arms anigh,
And sighs to sing his evening song
In our warm air the winter long.
Cold dews below, cold stars on high;
The chilly cricket sees our light
Reach welcoming arms anigh,
And sighs to sing his evening song
In our warm air the winter long.
Blithe cricket! welcome, singing, here!
I half-recall dead Autumns cold,
With half-shut eyelids dream, my dear,
Their sadness vague and old:
Ha! the lithe flame leaps red, and tries
With bursting sparks to blind my eyes!
I half-recall dead Autumns cold,
With half-shut eyelids dream, my dear,
Their sadness vague and old:
Ha! the lithe flame leaps red, and tries
With bursting sparks to blind my eyes!
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Ill-timed the gay conceit, I know:
On the dark hills that near us lie
(The Shadow will not, need not, go)
Beneath the Autumnal sky
Stand battle-tents, that, everywhere,
Keep ghostly white the moonless air.
On the dark hills that near us lie
(The Shadow will not, need not, go)
Beneath the Autumnal sky
Stand battle-tents, that, everywhere,
Keep ghostly white the moonless air.
The sentinel walks his lonely beat,
The soldier slumbers on the ground:
To one hearth-glimmers far are sweet,
One dreams of fireside sound!
From unforgotten doors they reach,
Dear sympathies, as dear as speech.
The soldier slumbers on the ground:
To one hearth-glimmers far are sweet,
One dreams of fireside sound!
From unforgotten doors they reach,
Dear sympathies, as dear as speech.
I think of all the homeless woe,
The battle-winter long;
Alas, the world—the hearth's aglow!
And, hark! the cricket's song
Within!—the Fairy's minstrel sings
Away the ghosts of saddest things!
The battle-winter long;
Alas, the world—the hearth's aglow!
And, hark! the cricket's song
Within!—the Fairy's minstrel sings
Away the ghosts of saddest things!
The firelight strikes our walls to bloom—
Home's tender warmth in flower, I deem;
And look, the pictures in the room
Shine in the restless gleam—
Dear, humble fancies of the heart
When Art was Love in love with Art:
Home's tender warmth in flower, I deem;
And look, the pictures in the room
Shine in the restless gleam—
Dear, humble fancies of the heart
When Art was Love in love with Art:
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The Torrent lost in rainbow spray;
The Flock (its shepherdess the moon)
Asleep; the Laureate-Lark of Day
At home some even in June;
The Window, wide for beam and bee:
A dove within—without, the sea!
The Flock (its shepherdess the moon)
Asleep; the Laureate-Lark of Day
At home some even in June;
The Window, wide for beam and bee:
A dove within—without, the sea!
A Cottage in a summer land,
With one whose shadow walks before:
Snow-peaks afar in sunset stand—
Vines flutter at the door,
Half-hiding in a sunlit place,
But cannot hide, a sunlit face;
With one whose shadow walks before:
Snow-peaks afar in sunset stand—
Vines flutter at the door,
Half-hiding in a sunlit place,
But cannot hide, a sunlit face;
The Mother, with her arms about
Her baby kiss'd from evening sleep—
Still rocks the cradle: laugh and shout
Within her bosom keep
Glad echoes—on her drooping hair
A sunbeam, 'lighting, lingers there;
Her baby kiss'd from evening sleep—
Still rocks the cradle: laugh and shout
Within her bosom keep
Glad echoes—on her drooping hair
A sunbeam, 'lighting, lingers there;
The Angel visiting her Child,
Hovering with a yearning grace,
Flush'd by the firelight, sweetly mild,
A mother's brooding face:
Her wings (the boy has dreaming eyes)
Show that she came from Paradise!
Hovering with a yearning grace,
Flush'd by the firelight, sweetly mild,
A mother's brooding face:
Her wings (the boy has dreaming eyes)
Show that she came from Paradise!
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Blithe dance the flames and blest are we!
Without, the funeral of the year
Is preach'd by every mournful tree;
The tree in blossom here
Knows no lost leaves, no vanish'd wing—
In vain will Autumn preach to Spring!
Without, the funeral of the year
Is preach'd by every mournful tree;
The tree in blossom here
Knows no lost leaves, no vanish'd wing—
In vain will Autumn preach to Spring!
The cricket sings. His song? You know:
Warm prophecies of dearest days—
(Horizons lost of long ago
Crumble within the blaze!)
Of nights aglow with lights that bless
And wine from Home's enchanted press.
Warm prophecies of dearest days—
(Horizons lost of long ago
Crumble within the blaze!)
Of nights aglow with lights that bless
And wine from Home's enchanted press.
The cricket sings; and, as I dream,
Your face shows tender smile and tear—
What angels of the hearth, a-gleam,
Wingless, have lighted here?
Sing, cricket, sing of these to-night—
The First Fire of our Home is bright!
Your face shows tender smile and tear—
What angels of the hearth, a-gleam,
Wingless, have lighted here?
Sing, cricket, sing of these to-night—
The First Fire of our Home is bright!
Georgetown, D. C., October, 1861.
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