It is a mild and lovely winter night,

The breeze without is scarcely heard to sigh;

The crescent moon, and stars with twinkling light,

Are shining calmly in a cloudless sky.

Within the fire burns clearly; in its rays

My old oak book-case wears a cheerful smile,

Its antique mouldings brightened by the blaze

Might vie with any of more modern style.

That rural sketch; that scene in Norway's land

Of rocks and pine-trees by the torrent's foam;

That landscape traced by Gainsborough's youthful hand;

Which shows how lovely is a peasant's home;—

That virgin and her child, with those sweet boys;

All of the fire-light own the genial gleam,

And lovelier far than in day's light and noise

To me at this still hour their beauties seem.

One more there is, which should not pass by me

Unhonoured or unsung, because it bears

In many a lonely hour my thoughts to thee,

Heightening to fancy every charm it wears.

How beautiful that group! A mother mild,

And young, and fair, who fain would teach to read

That urchin by her patience unbeguiled,

The open volume on her lap to heed.

With fingers thrust into his ears he looks

As though he wished his weary task were done;

And more the love of pastime than of books

Lurks in that arch dark eye so full of fun.

Graver, or in the pouts, ‘twere hard to tell

Which of the twain, his elder sister plies

Her sempstress labours, none can read so well

The mute expression of her downcast eyes.

Dear Charles, if thou shouldst haply chance to know

Where such a print once hung in days of yore,

Its highest worth, its deepest charm to show,

I need not tax my rhymes or fancy more.

It is not womanhood in all its grace,

And boyhood in its beauty— only plead;

Though these each stranger eye delights to trace,

And many a plaudit oft has been their meed.

With them my thoughts and feelings fondly blend

A hidden charm, unborrowed from the eye,