Poems (Helen Jenkins)/The Cricket on the Hearth

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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 astrandOn 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 awayInto 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 delightOf the homelife cheery and sweet.
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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 nightAnd 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 affrightThese fairy folks, trustful and gay.
Now, our children miss the hearingOf their music bright and cheering.     No warm hearths are left;     Crickets are bereftOf a shrine in each cottager's home;     These wee folks so deft     Find never a cleft,But shelterless ever must roam.
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