Across the gladsome lake.

One with the cricket in the ground,

And fuel on the hearth,

Resounds the rare domestic sound

Along the forest path.

Fair Haven is my huge tea-urn

That seethes and sings to me,

And eke the crackling fagots burn,—

A homebred minstrelsy.

SOME SCRAPS FROM AN ESSAY ON "SOUND AND SILENCE" WRITTEN IN THE LATTER HALF OF THIS MONTH,—DECEMBER, 1838[44]