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And the legend, I feel, is a part
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
To quiet its fever and pain.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
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 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,
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 his daughter's voice,
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.
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.
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
By day its voice is low and light;
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
In that mansion used to be