صور الصفحة



Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshiug-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, v For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.


The rising moon has hid the stars;

Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow

Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes, —the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity, —

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,

Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,

Responds unto his own.

Responds, — as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
'' Where hast thou stayed so long?"




A Youth, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world;

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent
And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife
Close in my heart was locked,

And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream, — away!

Too long did it remain!
So long, that both by night and day

It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;

To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;

Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er,

I bathe mine eyes and see; Andwanderthrough the world oncemore,

A youth so light and free.

Two locks — and they are wondrous fair — •

Left me that vision mild;
The brown is from the mother's hair,

The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening-red;

And when the dark lock I behold,
I wish that I were dead.


No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.

Spanish Proverb

The sun is bright, —the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,

And from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,

Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new ; .— the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; —
There are no birds in last year's nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight!

And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For O, it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest;

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!


The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.


I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown

The seed that they had gamered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith, that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rnde ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow!


River ! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,

I have seen thy waters stealing'
Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River!

Many a lesson, deep and long; Thou hast been a generous giver;

I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watched thy current glide,

Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,

I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue

From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,

And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,

And have made thy margin dear.

More than this ; — thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried;

And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my soul with joy remembers!

How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers

On the hearth-stone of my heart!

'T is for this, thou Silent River!

That my spirit leans to thee; Thou hast been a generous giver,

Take this idle song from me.


Blind Bartimeus at the gates

Of Jericho in.darkness waits;

He hears the crowd ;— he hears a breath

Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!"

And calls, in tones of agony,

'I^troO, iX^TJadf fj.e 1

The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!"
Qdpaet, (yeipai,ifiavei ae I

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, "What wilt thou at my

And he replies, "O give me light!
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight.
And Jesus answers, "T7ra7e •
'H Ttlvtis aou atataKt ae I

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,

Q&pvei, Hyetpai, Viraye!
'H mcrris aov triabini <re I

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