'TWAS night--and winds were raving round,
With stern December's surly sound
The well-swept hearth was burning bright,
And shed on all its cheering light;
The doors were closed, the curtains drawn,
The floor-cloth smooth as verdant lawn,
And all was joy, and sportive mirth,
Around the dear domestic hearth.
Domestic love! what holier shrine,
Save One, is reared on earth, than thine?
Where, as when clustered round thy feet,
Does heart meet heart, in concord sweet!
Star of our souls where'er we roam,
We turn to thee, delightful home!
'Twas night--the feather-footed hours
Had fled, as if they "stepped on flowers;"
Had noiseless fled, yet left behind
In happy hearts? mementos kind
Of hours, in social converse spent,
When every look is eloquent
Of moments passed, with those we love,
Prized by the heart, long years, above:
Moments, which shall for ever be,
Embalmed in fondest memory.
The jest, the laugh had circled round,
Mingled with music's silver sound;
That wild and witching melody
Which moves, at once, and melts the soul,
And bids, from out the unconscious eye,
The involuntary tear-drop roll.
Such notes as oft, at midnight hour,
The sad enthusiast, ravish'd, hears;
Far echo of some angel's song,
Sweet harmony of circling spheres.
Those notes, those notes, they linger yet,
Oh! who that heard them, could forget!
Speech shall be lost, and thought, as soon
As that sweet voice, and "Bonny Doon."