Poems (Helen Jenkins)/The Cricket on the Hearth

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH.

These merry friends no longer come—
Good fairies—to each hearth and home.
Some pitiless hand,
Or magical wand,
Has driven them out in the cold.
The dear little band
Are now left astrand
On the bleak and desolate wold.

Once, they were spirits potential,
And felt themselves consequential;
With no thought of fear,
Or of hearthstones drear,
They chirped through the livelong night;
In notes full of cheer,
So loud and so clear,
Sang blithely each dear little wight.

When daylight came, they crept away
Into some crevice, so timid were they,
Till the fire shone bright
On the hearth at night;
Then out came their shy little feet.
Each dear elfin sprite
Sang loud with delight
Of the homelife cheery and sweet.

Once, in a cottage far away,
A neighbor's house where I chanced to stay,
One dear little fay
In a sleek suit of gray,
Looking so wise and so bright,
With its wings did play
A sweet roundelay,
To brighten the desolate night.

I sat in the firelight glowing,
Watching its coming and going:
It came out so still
From its corner chill,
To bask in the fire's ruddy light.
A soft little trill
The silence would thrill—
If I moved, it crept out of sight.

The Angel of Death came there that night
And took in his arms a cherub bright;
And, winging his flight
To the realms of light,
He carried their darling away.
Yet this chilling sight
Could never affright
These fairy folks, trustful and gay.

Now, our children miss the hearing
Of their music bright and cheering.
No warm hearths are left;
Crickets are bereft
Of a shrine in each cottager's home;
These wee folks so deft
Find never a cleft,
But shelterless ever must roam.