THE OLD-TIME HEARTH-FIRE.

The poets praise, in touching rhyme, The hearth-fire of the olden time; I read their verse with many a sigh, And think of times and joys gone by. Thus dreaming o’er the past, I’m fain To think I see it all again. Now, sights like these are truly rare, Coal fires are fashion every where; Among the so-called class elite, There is nor stove nor fire in sight. You wonder?—yes, ’tis even so— The heat comes somehow from below! One feels quite lost—things do not fit— No place to look, no place to sit— The room is warm—how strange to me— And yet no fire to stir or see! Such modes!—away, ’tis nothing worth, Give me the old-time glowing hearth. I ever feel for that dear spot, A home-sick love that ceases not; Whate’er I do, where’er I roam, My heart returns to that hearth-home; I never can recall the cheer Of that old hearth, without a tear. There lay the back-log round and thick; In front a row of stone or brick; On that we laid the smaller wood; Then rose the flame—how warm and good! And when without the storm-wind blew, What roaring in the chimney flue! Against the jam—forethought is good— Is piled the ready-needed wood; Just opposite—a thing how rare— Inviting leans the rustic chair, And in the chimney-corner stand The tongs and shovel near at hand. The mantle-shelf, familiar still, Holds candlesticks and coffee-mill; The smoothing irons, large and small, The lard-lamp overtops them all; And sulphur sticks—they burn you know, From faintest coal when fire is low. Oft have I watched at even-tide Strange ghost-forms through the embers glide; The glowing coals, white, black and red, Now livid are, and now seem dead! We look, and think, and can with ease See in the fire just what we please. How sweet to sit the hearth-fire by, Till living coals to embers die; White ashes, creeping o’er their crest, Come as if covering them for rest; How dream-like fades their glowing light, Like eyes that sink to sleep at night. Sit we beside a certain friend, In love the evening hour to spend; To double eyes, at such an hour, The coals have a most charming power! As one, appear such mutual souls, They see the same forms in the coals. O’er youth, as all the poets say, The hearth-fire holds enchanting sway; For then their dreaming fancy sees A cottage mid a clump of trees; They ask no greater bliss to share Than just to live together there. Some think the hearth-fire spell o’er hearts Is close allied to witching arts! One thing is sure—oft to that shrine, Fond memory draws this heart of mine; And round that hearth’s soft evening gleams, My spirit dreams its sweetest dreams. When I that hearth in fancy see, My childhood all comes back to me; Then lives my father as before— Then is my mother there once more; And brothers, sisters, scattered wide, Come home again at even-tide.