Anna Laetitia Barbauld - The First Fire lyrics

OCTOBER 1st, 1815. Ha, old acquaintance! many a month has past Since last I viewed thy ruddy face; and I, Shame on me! had mean time well nigh forgot That such a friend existed. Welcome now!— When summer suns ride high, and tepid airs Dissolve in pleasing languor; then indeed We think thee needless, and in wanton pride Mock at thy grim attire and sooty jaws, And breath sulphureous, generating spleen,— As Frenchmen say; Frenchmen, who never knew The sober comforts of a good coal fire. —Let me imbibe thy warmth, and spread myself Before thy shrine adoring:—magnet thou Of strong attraction, daily gathering in Friends, brethren, kinsmen, variously dispersed, All the dear charities of social life, To thy close circle. Here a man might stand, And say, This is my world! Who would not bleed Rather than see thy violated hearth Prest by a hostile foot? The winds sing shrill; Heap on the fuel! Not the costly board, Nor sparkling gla**, nor wit, nor music, cheer Without thy aid. If thrifty thou dispense Thy gladdening influence, in the chill saloon The silent shrug declares the' unpleased guest. —How grateful to belated traveller Homeward returning, to behold the blaze From cottage window, rendering visible The cheerful scene within! There sits the sire, Whose wicker chair, in sunniest nook enshrined, His age's privilege,—a privilege for which Age gladly yields up all precedence else In gay and bustling scenes,—supports his limbs. Cherished by thee, he feels the grateful warmth Creep through his feeble frame and thaw the ice Of fourscore years, and thoughts of youth arise. —Nor less the young ones press within, to see Thy face delighted, and with husk of nuts, Or crackling holly, or the gummy pine, Feed thy immortal hunger: cheaply pleased They gaze delighted, while the leaping flames Dart like an adder's tongue upon their prey; Or touch with lighted reed thy wreaths of smoke; Or listen, while the matron sage remarks Thy bright blue scorching flame and aspect clear, Denoting frosty skies. Thus pa** the hours, While Winter spends without his idle rage. —Companion of the solitary man, From gayer scenes withheld! With thee he sits, Converses, moralizes; musing asks How many æras of uncounted time Have rolled away since thy black unctuous food Was green with vegetative life, and what This planet then: or marks, in sprightlier mood, Thy flickering smiles play round the' illumined room, And fancies gay discourse, life, motion, mirth, And half forgets he is a lonely creature. —Nor less the bashful poet loves to sit Snug, at the midnight hour, with only thee Of his lone musings conscious. Oft he writes, And blots, and writes again; and oft, by fits, Gazes intent with eyes of vacancy On thy bright face; and still at intervals, Dreading the critic's scorn, to thee commits, Sole confidant and safe, his fancies crude. —O wretched he, with bolts and ma**y bars In narrow cell immured, whose green damp walls, That weep unwholesome dews, have never felt Thy purifying influence! Sad he sits Day after day, till in his youthful limbs Life stagnates, and the hue of hope is fled From his wan cheek.—And scarce less wretched he— When wintry winds blow loud and frosts bite keen,— The dweller of the clay-built tenement, Poverty-struck, who, heartless, strives to raise From sullen turf, or stick plucked from the hedge, The short-lived blaze; while chill around him spreads The dreary fen, and Ague, sallow-faced, Stares through the broken pane;—Assist him, ye On whose warm roofs the sun of plenty shines, And feel a glow beyond material fire!