’Tis winter, and the fire burns bright,

And by its gleams the while,

Looking the lovelier for its blaze,

Shines forth each storied tile.

A Mother, and her darling Boy,

Are placed the fire beside;

She is his kindest, truest friend,

And he her hope and pride.

The Bible, open on her knee,

Her narrative supplies;

And much those story-pictur’d tiles

Delight his wondering eyes.

She reads, and points, and leads him on

With love which cannot fail;

’Till deep into his heart hath sunk

The moral of each tale.

Thus is the Book of books to him,

By blameless art like this,

Made, even to his boyish heart,

A source of sweetest bliss.

And who shall doubt, in after life,

The knowledge thus acquired

Tended to make him, when a man,

What she at heart desired?

Those old Dutch tiles! those old Dutch tiles!

It was a happy thought

Which scripture lore by graphic aid

Thus to the fire-side brought.

I well remember, when a child,

The wonder and delight

It gave, to see what I had read

Depicted to my sight.

Though quaint and rude was each design

The artist there had traced,

Perspective at defiance set,

And groups but oddly placed;

Still every tinted tablet told

Of some familiar tale:—

Of David, with the sling and stone

Goliath, clad in mail.

Of Joseph, when a stripling youth,

By cruel brethren sold,

To be a slave in Egypt's land,

The story there was told.

And that of gentle Ruth, who went

In Boaz’ fields to glean;

And Naaman, by the prophet bade

To wash— and so be clean!

There, too, the Saviour, when a boy,

With learn’d doctors talk’d;

And here, upon the tossing sea,

At midnight's hour He walk’d.