VIII. TO MY BROTHERS.
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mall, 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. _November 18, 1816._
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