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THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
BY HENRY W. LONG FELLOW.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands ;
With large and sinewy hands ;
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 out, week in, from morn till night, .
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
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 it makes his heart rejoice.
THE VILLAGE BLACA SMITH.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies;
A tear from out his eyes.
Onward through life he goes:
Each evening sees it close;
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.
BY JONES VERY.
Thou need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest,
THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN.
BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.
And now, in accents deep and low,
The Sylph of Autumn sad: Though I may not of raptures sing, That graced the gentle song of Spring, Like Summer, playful pleasures bring,
Thy youthful heart to glad;
Yet still may I in hope aspire
And purifying love:
First raised to worlds above.
What though be mine the treasures fair Of purple grape and yellow pear,