THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree With large and sinewy hands; His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 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, 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! THE RAINY DAY. He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Some days must be dark and dreary. 273 ENDYMION. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Nor voice, nor sound betrays 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! Are fraught with fear and pain, No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds, as if with unseen wings, "Where hast thou stayed so long!" NN 275 |