EVENING AT HOME.
WRITTEN IN EARLY YOUTH.
Loud roars the hoarse storm from the angry north,
As if the wintry spirit, loth to leave
Its wonted haunts, came rudely rushing on,
Fast by the steps of the defenceless Spring,
To hurl his frost-spear at her shrinking flowers.
Yet while the tempest o'er the charms of May
Sweeps dominant, and with discordant tone
The wild blast rules without, peace smiles within;
The fire burns cheerful, and the taper clear
Alternate aids the needle, or illumes
The page sublime, inciting the rapt soul,
To soar above the warring elements.
My gentle kitten at my footstool sings,
Her song monotonous, and full of joy;
Close by my side my tender mother sits,
Industriously bent,—her brow still bright
With beams of lingering youth, while he, the sire,
The faithful guide, indulgently doth smile
At our discourse, or wake the tuneful hymn
Which best he loves.
Fountain of life and light!—
Father Supreme! from whom our joys descend,
