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, Week in, week out, from morn till night, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 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, 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, THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, ENDYMION. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Its deep, impassioned gaze. It comes, the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep. Of him, who slumbering lies. O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! O, drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again! No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds, as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long?" THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, |