Have you noticed, little children,
When the fire is burning low,
As the embers flash and darken,
How the pictures come and go?
Strange the shapes, and strange the fancies,
As beyond the bars you gaze,
Bringing back some olden mem'ries,
Thoughts of half-forgotten days!
There's the Church across the meadows,
Shadow'd by the spreading yew;
There's the quaintly-carven pulpit,
And the olden oaken pew.
Changed the scene, and on the ocean
Sails a ship amid the spray;
'Tis the one you watch'd departing,
When some lov'd-one went away!
Yes! and there are faces plenty,
Faces dear, both old and young
And they cause you to remember
Words their lips oft said or sung.
Fancy even brings the voices,
Tho' they may be far away;
Only pictures, only fancies,
Yes! but very sweet are they!
Little Children, let me tell you
Tis yourselves who shape the scene!
In your minds a memory lingers,
And it peeps the bars between!
If you doubt me, choose a subject,
Any one you may desire,
And you will, by dint of looking,
Find its picture in the fire!
E. Oxenford.
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