Classic Poem

The fire is burning cheerly bright,
The room is snug and warm;
We keep afar the wintry night,
And drive away the storm;
And when without the wanderer pines,
And all is dark and chill,
We sit securely by the fire,
And sparkling glasses fill.

And ever as the hollow wind
Howls through the moaning trees,
Strange feelings on the boding heart
With sudden chillness seize:
But brightly blazes then the hearth,
And freely flows the wine;
And laugh of glee, and song of mirth,
Then wreathe their merry twine.

We think not how the dashing sleet
Beats on the crusted pane;
We care not though the drifting snow
Whirls o'er the heath amain:
But haply, while our hearts are bright,
Far struggling through the waste,
Some traveller seeks our window's light,
With long and fruitless haste.

Hark his halloo!—we leave the fire,
And hurry forth to save:
A short half-hour, and he had found,
Beneath the snow, a grave.
Pile on the wood,—feed high the flame,—
Bring forth our choicest store!
The traveller's heart grows warm again;
His spirit droops no more.