The parlour peaceful. In the chimney flames
A bright fire that attracts. Whistle the winds
Outside, and on the window-sash the rain
Beats with a noise of sobbing, wild and strange.
Cheerful a lamp, under its green shade, burns,
And bathes with mellow light a table large.
A rich vase full of after-season flowers
Exhales a perfume vague and soft, that steals
Like the familiar sound of some old air
Hummed by a voice beloved that dies away.
The father writes. The mother, active, pale,
And thoughtful, as a mother always seems,
Covers a canvas wide with brave designs
Of variegated colours. One may see
Under her busy fingers, as they move,
Grow by degrees the tissue shaded fine
Of wool, red, black, orange, and violet.
At the piano, seated in the midst,
Upon the ivory touches a young girl
Essays a piece preferred, then turns and smiles.
Her profile, lightened by a single ray,
Is proud, and full of noble sympathies,
And oh, so pure! An antique cameo cut
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