At Early Candle-Lighting.

THOSE, who have heard the whispered breath

Of Nature's secret “Shibboleth,”

And learned the pass-word to unroll

The veil that hides her inmost soul,

May follow; but this by-path leads

Through mullein stalks and jimson-weeds.

And he who scorning treads them down

Would deem but poor and common-place

Those whom he'll meet in homespun gown.

But they who lovingly retrace

Their steps to scenes I dream about,

Will find the latch-string hanging out.

With them I claim companionship,

And for them burn my tallow-dip,

At early candle-lighting.

To these low hills, around which cling

My fondest thoughts, I would not bring

An alien eye long used to sights

Among the snow-crowned Alpine heights.

An eagle does not bend its wing

To low-built nests where robins sing.

Between the fence's zigzag rails,

The stranger sees the road that trails

Its winding way into the dark,

Fern-scented woods. He does not mark

The old log cabin at the end

As I, or hail it as a friend,

Or catch, when daylight's last rays wane,

The glimmer through its narrow pane

Of early candle-lighting.

As anglers sit and half in dream

Dip lazy lines into the stream,

And watch the swimming life below,

So I watch pictures come and go.

And in the flame, Alladin-wise,

See genii of the past arise.

If it be so that common things

Can fledge your fancy with fast wings;

If you the language can translate

Of lowly life, and make it great,

And can the beauty understand

That dignifies a toil-worn hand,

Look in this halo, and see how

The homely seems transfigured now

At early candle-lighting.

A fire-place where the great logs roar

And shine across the puncheon floor,

And through the chinked walls, here and there,

The snow steals, and the frosty air.

Meager and bare the furnishings,

But hospitality that kings

Might well dispense, transmutes to gold,

The welcome given young and old.

Plain and uncouth in speech and dress,

But richly clad in kindliness,

The neighbors gather, one by one,

At rustic rout when day is done.

Vanish all else in this soft light,—

The past is ours again tonight;

‘ Tis early candle-lighting.

Oh, well-remembered scenes like these:

The candy-pullings, husking-bees —

The evenings when the quilting frames

Were laid aside for romping games;

The singing school! The spelling match!

My hand still lingers on the latch,

I fain would wider swing the door

And enter with the guests once more.

Though into ashes long ago

That fire faded, still the glow

That warmed the hearts around it met,

Immortal, burns within me yet.

Still to that cabin in the wood

I turn for highest types of good

At early candle-lighting.

How fast the scenes come flocking to

My mind, as white sheep jostle through

The gap, when pasture bars are down,

And pass into the twilight brown.

Grandmother's face and snowy cap,

The knitting work upon her lap,

The creaking, high-backed rocking-chair;

The spinning-wheel, the big loom where

The shuttle carried song and thread;

The valance on the high, white bed

Whose folds the lavender still keep.

Oh! nowhere else such dreamless sleep

On tired eyes its deep spell lays,

As that which came in those old days

At early candle-lighting.

A kitchen lit by one dim light,

And‘ round the table in affright,

A group of children telling tales.

Outside, the wind — a banshee — wails.

Even the shadows, that they throw

Upon the walls, to giants grow.

The hailstones‘ gainst the window panes

Fall with the noise of clanking chains,

Till, glancing back, they almost feel

Black shapes from out the corners steal,

And, climbing to the loft o'erhead,

The witches follow them to bed.

The low flame flickers. Snuff the wick!

For ghosts and goblins crowd so thick

At early candle-lighting.

An orchard path that tramping feet

For half a century have beat;

Here to the fields at sun-up went

The reapers. Here, on errands sent,

Small bare-feet loitered, loath to go.

Here apple-boughs dropped blooming snow,

Through garden borders gaily set

With touch-me-nots and bouncing Bet;

Here passed at dusk the harvester

With quickened step and pulse astir

At sight of some one's fluttering gown,

Who stood with sunbonnet pulled down

And called the cows. Ah, in a glance

One reads that simple, old romance

At early candle-lighting.

One picture more. A winter day

Just done, and supper cleared away.

The romping children quiet grow,

And in the reverent silence, slow

The old man turns the sacred page,

Guide of his life and staff of age.

And then, the while my eyes grow dim,

The mother's voice begins a hymn:

“Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer

That calls me from a world of care!”

What wonder from those cabins rude

Came lives of stalwart rectitude,

When hearth-stones were the altars where

Arose the vestal flame of prayer

At early candle-lighting.

No crumbling castle walls are ours,

No ruined battlements and towers.

Our history, on callow wings,

Soared not in time of feudal kings;

No strolling minstrel's roundelay

Tells of past glory in decay,

But rugged life of pioneer

Has passed away among us here;

And as the ivy tendrils grow

About the ancient turrets, so

The influence of its sturdy truth

Shall live in never-ending youth,

When simple customs of its day

Have, long-forgotten, passed away

With early candle-lighting.