THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

BY HENRY W. LONG FELLOW.

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 out, week in, 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 old kirk chimes

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 it makes his heart rejoice.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

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 from out 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.

37

THE ROBIN.

BY JONES VERY.

THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest,
Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by,

Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest,
Or he thy young unfinished cottage spy;
All will not heed thee on that swinging bough,
Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves,
Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now,
For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves;
All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy,

That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song,

For over-anxious cares their souls employ,

That else upon thy music borne along

And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer

Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to

share.

THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

AND now, in accents deep and low,
Like voice of fondly-cherished wo,

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

Thy heart to touch with chaster fire,

And purifying love:

For I with vision high and holy,

And spell of quick'ning melancholy,

Thy soul from sublunary folly

First raised to worlds above.

What though be mine the treasures fair Of purple grape and yellow pear,

D*