And the legend, I feel, is a part THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; With large and sinewy hands; 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, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, 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, 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, Thus at the flaming forge of life THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; An ancient timepiece says to all, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! "Forever-never! Never-forever!" By day its voice is low and light; And seems to say, at each chamber-door,"Forever-never! Never-forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe,— "Forever-never! Never-forever!" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; |