MISCELLANEOUS. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, 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 And hear the bellows roar, He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, ་ For the lesson thou hast taught ! And even the nest beneath the eaves; There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love, Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 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, 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 Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; GOD'S ACRE. 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 |