THE FIRE SIDE.
Now around the blazing fire,
Social seated, raptures steal;
Dame and daughter, son and sire,
Each relate by turns the tale.
Laugh, and sprightly song go round,
Prattling children speak their fears;
Now ghosts stalking forth profound,
Wrought by fancy pale appears.
But from fictious stories free,
Free from such opinions vain,
No wan spectre sire can see,
Thus he breaks their idle strain.
“No, my children, conscious guile,
Only can make these arise;
The abandon’d and the vile,
Well may dread—but not the wise.
Tread my youthful children dear,
In those paths mark’d by our Lord;
So shall phantoms ne’er give fear—
God’s your guardian, ye his ward.”