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VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Shakespeare.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Under a spreading chesnut 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 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,

VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

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.

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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 begun,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Longfellow.

THE IDIOT BORN.
"Out, thou silly moon-struck elf;
Back, poor fool, and hide thyself!”
This is what the wise ones say,
Should the idiot cross their way;
But if we would closely mark,
We should see him not all dark;
We should find we must not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

He will screen the newt and frog;
He will cheer the famished dog;
He will seek to share his bread
With the orphan, parish fed;
He will offer up his seat
To the stranger's wearied feet.
Selfish tyrants, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

Use him fairly, he will prove
How the simple breast can love;
He will spring with infant glee,
To the form he likes to see.
Gentle speech, or kindness done,
Truly binds the witless one;
Heartless traitors, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

MAY-QUEEN.

Art thou great as man can be?

The same hand moulded him and thee.

Hast thou talent?-taunt and jeer

Must not fall upon his ear.

Spurn him not; the blemished part
Had better be the head than heart;
Thou wilt be the fool to scorn

The teaching of the idiot-born.

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Eliza Cook.

THE MAY-QUEEN.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad new year;

Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;

For I'm to be Queen o'the May, Mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

There's many a black black eye, Mother, but none so bright as mine,

There's Grace, and Isabella, and Kate, and Caroline,

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land

they say;

So I'm to be Queen o'the May, Mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

I sleep so sound all night, Mother, that I shall never wake

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds, and garlands gay,

For I'm to be Queen o'the May, Mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,

And you'll be there too, Mother, to see me made the Queen;

For the Shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away,

And I'm to be Queen o'the May, Mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,

And by the meadow trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers,