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| SMALL, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals, | |
| And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creep | |
| Like whispers of the household gods that keep | |
| A gentle empire o’er fraternal souls. | |
| And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, | 5 |
| Your eyes are fix’d, as in poetic sleep, | |
| Upon the lore so voluble and deep, | |
| That aye at fall of night our care condoles. | |
| This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice | |
| That thus it passes smoothly, quietly. | 10 |
| Many such eves of gently whisp’ring noise | |
| May we together pass, and calmly try | |
| What are this world’s true joys,—ere the great voice, | |
From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.
November 18, 1816. | |
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