Sonnet XI To the Fire
My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright,
Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame;
Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night,
Thy genial heat enlivens the chill’d frame.
I love to muse me o’er the evening hearth,
I love to pause in meditation’s sway;
And whilst each object gives reflection birth,
Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay:
And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,
Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer;
And wish at last, in life’s declining scene,
As I had beam’d as bright, to fade as clear:
So might my children ponder o’er my shrine,
And o’er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.
BION.