as verse, but of the spirit in the old squire. There is no
title to these two:--

I like a fire of wood; there is a kind
Of artless poetry in all its ways:
When first 'tis lighted, how it roars and plays,
And sways to every breath its flames, refined
By fancy to some shape by life confined.
And then how touching are its latter days;
When, all its strength decayed, and spent the blaze
Of fiery youth, grey ash is all we find.
Perhaps we know the tree, of which the pile
Once formed a part, and oft beneath its shade
Have sported in our youth; or in quaint style
Have carved upon its rugged bark a name
Of which the memory doth alone remain
A memory doomed, alas! in turn to fade.

Bad enough as verse, the critic will say; refined, confined,
find--what poor rhymes are these! and he will think me wrong
to draw these frailties from their forgotten abode. But I
like to think of the solitary old man sitting by his wood
fire in the old house, not brooding bitterly on his frustrate
life, but putting his quiet thoughts into the form of a
sonnet. The other is equally good--or bad, if the critic
will have it so:--

The clock had just struck five, and all was still
Within my house, when straight I open threw
With eager hand the casement dim with dew.