Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the heart of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again; The first slight swerving of the heart, And leave it still unsaid in part, The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, The windows, rattling in their frames, Until they made themselves a part That send no answers back again. O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. MY AIN FIRESIDE I HAE seen great anes and sat in great ha's, As the bonny blithe blink o' my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O, cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside; My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. Ance mair, Gude be thankit, round my ain heartsome ingle Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad. Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fireside. O, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. When I draw in my stool on my cozy hearthstane, And mark saft affection glent fond frae ilk ee; O, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. THE INGLE-SIDE Ir's rare to see the morning bleeze Like a bonfire frae the sea, But rarer, fairer, finer far Is the ingle-side for me. Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, But the canty hearth where cronies meet, An' the darling o' our e'e, That makes to us a warl' complete: Oh, the ingle-side for me! Hew Ainslee [1792-1878] THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR IN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; Is grand, through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire, That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times: As we sit in a fog made of rick Latakie, This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; It was but a moment she sat in this place, A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, She comes from the past, and revisits my room; William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863] 'THOSE EVENING BELLS ” THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are passed away; And so 'twill be when I am gone,- |