To My Brothers

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keepA gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,Upon the lore so voluble and deep,That aye at fall of night our care condoles.This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoiceThat thus it passes smoothly, quietly:Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noiseMay we together pass, and calmly tryWhat are this world's true joys,—ere the great Voice,From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.