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 threshing-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 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 begun,
Each evening sees its close!
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
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.

C

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 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; 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.

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.
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!
Thou hast been a generous giver;
Many a lesson, deep and long;
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.

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 hearthstone of my heart! 'Tis 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.

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,
̓Ιησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με !

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!"
Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ σε !

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

And he replies, "O give me light! Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!" And Jesus answers, "Yayε

‘Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε !

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με
Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε!
Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε !

THE GOBLET OF LIFE. FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim ; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers,—no garlands green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between

Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Is filled with waters, that upstart
When the deep fountains of the heart,
By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,

With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours
Was gifted with the wondrous powers,
Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength and fearless mood;
And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food;
And he who battled and subdued,
A wreath of fennel wore.
Then in Life's goblet freely press
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the coloured waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give!
And he who has not learnt to know
How false its sparkling bubbles show,.
How bitter are the drops of woe
With which its brim may overflow,
He has not learned to live.
The prayer of Ajax was for light;
Through all that dark and desperate fight,
The blackness of that noonday night,
He asked but the return of sight,

To see his foeman's face.

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
Be, too, for light,-for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight of care,
That crushes into dumb despair

One half the human race.

O suffering, sad humanity!
O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried!

I pledge you in this cup of grief,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!
The Battle of our Life is brief,
The alarm, the struggle,-the relief,-
Then sleep we side by side.

MAIDENHOOD.

MAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies, Like the dusk in evening skies! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run! Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream. Then why pause with undecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly? Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar? O, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;-
Age, the bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds, that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine dart
Into may a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

EXCELSIOR!

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and
bright;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!