THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH INDER a spreading chestnut-tree UNDE 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, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, 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, 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! ENDYMION THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, And silver white the river gleams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, |