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THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought ; UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree Thus on its sounding anvil shaped The village smithy stands ;
Each burning deed and thought. The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms
ENDYMION. Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, The rising moon has hid the stars ; His face is like the tan;
Her level rays, like golden bars, His brow is wet with honest sweat,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams, Week in, week out, from morn till night, Had dropt her silver bow You can hear his bellows blow ;
Upon the meadows low. You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow, On such a tranquil night as this, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When the evening sun is low.
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, They love to see the flaming forge, Love gives itself, but is not bought ; And hear the bellows roar,
Nor voice, nor sound betrays And catch the burning sparks that fly Its deep, impassioned gaze. Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
It comes, - the beautiful, the free, He goes on Sunday to the church,
The crown of all humanity,
In silence and alone
He hears his daughter's voice,
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep And it makes his heart rejoice. Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.
( weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes ! And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
O drooping souls, whose destinies A tear out of his eyes.
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again !
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate, Each evening sees it close ;
But some heart, though unknown, Something attempted, something done, Responds unto his own. Has earned a night's repose.
Responds, — as if with unseen wings, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy An angel touched its quivering strings ; friend,
And whispers, in its song, For the lesson thou hast taught ! “Where hast thou stayed so long ?”
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. And even the nest beneath the eaves ;
There are no birds in last year's nest ! FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER.
All things rejoice in youth and love, A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, The fulness of their first delight ! I wander through the world ;
And learn from the soft heavens above Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent The melting tenderness of night. And straight again is furled.
Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, Yet oft I dream, that once a wife
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; Close in my heart was locked, Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, And in the sweet repose of life
For 0, it is not always May ! A blessed child I rocked.
Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, I wake! Away that dream,
To some good angel leave the rest ; Too long did it remain !
For Time will teach thee soon the truth, So long, that both by night and day There are no birds in last year's nest !
It ever comes again.
THE RAINY DAY.
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering But now the dream is wholly o'er,
wall, I bathe mine eyes and see ; And wanderthrough the world once more,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary. A youth so light and free.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; Two locks — and they are wondrous It rains, and the wind is never weary.; fair
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Left me that vision mild ;
Past, The brown is from the mother's hair,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the The blond is from the child.
blast, And when I see that lock of gold,
And the days are dark and dreary. Pale grows the evening-red ;
Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining; And when the dark lock i behold,
Behind the clouds is the sun stillshining; I wish that I were dead.
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall, IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
Some days must be dark and dreary.
GOD'S - ACRE.
I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which
calls And from the stately elms I hear The bluebird prophesying Spring.
The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is
just; So blue yon winding river flows,
It consecrates each grave within its walls, It seems an outlet from the sky,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleepWhere waiting till the west-wind blows,
ing dust. The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imAll things are new ; - the buds, the parts leaves,
Comfort to those, who in the grave That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
The seed that they had garnered in their | Not for this alone I love thee, hearts,
Nor because thy waves of blue Their bread of life, alas ! no more their From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast, Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, In the sure faith, that we shall rise And thy waters disappear, again
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, At the great harvest, when the archan- And have made thy margin dear.
gel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and More than this ; – thy name reminds me grain.
Of three friends, all true and tried ;
And that name, like magic, binds me Then shall the good stand in immortal Closer, closer to thy side.
bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; Friends my soul with joy remembers ! And each bright blossom mingle its per- How like quivering flames they start, fume
When I fan the living embers With that of flowers, which never On the hearth-stone of my heart ! bloomed on earth.
'T is for this, thou Silent River ! With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn That my spirit leans to thee ; up the sod,
Thou hasť been a generous giver, And spread the furrow for the seed we Take this idle song from me.
soᎳ ; ; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests
BLIND BARTIMEUS. grow!
Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in, darkness waits ; TO THE RIVER CHARLES. He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath
Say, “ It is Christ of Nazareth !”
And calls, in tones of agony,
The thronging multitudes increase ;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! Four long years of mingled feeling,
But still, above the noisy crowd, Half in rest, and half in strife,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; I have seen thy waters stealing
Until they say,
“ He calleth thee !” Onward, like the stream of life.
θάρσει, έγειραι, φωνεί σε ! Thou hast taught me, Silent River !
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands Many a lesson, deep and long ;
The crowd, “What wilt thou at my Thou hast been a generous giver ;
hands?” I can give thee but a song.
And he replies, “O give me light !
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight. Oft in sadness and in illness,
And Jesus answers, "Traye ·
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
When I saw thy waters gleam, Ιησού, ελέησόν με !
And leap onward with thy stream. | Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε!