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THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
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;
He earns whate'er he can,
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,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshiug-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears his daughter's voice,
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,
Each morning sees some task begin,
Something attempted, something done,
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,
And silver white the river gleams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this,
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
It comes, —the beautiful, the free,
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds, — as if with unseen wings,
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.
FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER.
A Youth, light-hearted and content,
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent
Yet oft I dream, that once a wife
And in the sweet repose of life
I wake! Away that dream, — away!
Too long did it remain!
It ever comes again.
The end lies ever in my thought;
To a grave so cold and deep
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 blond is from the child.
And when I see that lock of gold,
And when the dark lock I behold,
IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
The sun is bright, —the air is clear,
And from the stately elms I hear
So blue yon winding river flows,
Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
All things are new ; .— the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves ; —
All things rejoice in youth and love,
And learn from the soft heavens above
Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
THE RAINY DAY.
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,
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
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!
TO THE RIVER CHARLES.
River ! that in silence windest
Till at length thy rest thou findest
Four long years of mingled feeling,
I have seen thy waters stealing'
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
And in better hours and brighter,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
Not for this alone I love thee,
From celestial seas above thee
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
And that name, like magic, binds me
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;
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
Q&pvei, Hyetpai, Viraye!