THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, In lurid fringes thrown, The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flashing zone. With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, With even beam she glides, The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides. The Village Blacksmith. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree 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 brow is wet with honest sweat- 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 hear the bellows roar, 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 closeSomething attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. 643 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wroughtThus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The Song of the Forge. CLANG, clang! the massive anvils ring; Say, brothers of the dusky brow, Clang, clang!- we forge the coulter now- Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil! Clang, clang!—our coulter's course shall be By many a streamlet's silver tide- When regal autumn's bounteous hand We bless, we bless the plough. Clang, clang!— again, my mates, what glows Anxious no more, the merchant sees Say on what sands these links shall sleep, By many an iceberg, lone and hoar; Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, The crashing broadside makes reply; Hold grappling ships, that strive the while For death or victory? Hurrah!-cling, clang!—once more, what glows, The furnace's red breath? Clang, clang! -a burning torrent, clear And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured Around, and up in the dusky air, As our hammers forge the sword. The sword! - a name of dread; yet when The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound How sacred is it then! Whenever for the truth and right "Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high | But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the sun shines not so! burthen be The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fear- The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen ful show! we! The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy | Strike in, strike in !— the sparks begin to dull their lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe! rustling red; our work will As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sail- Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich ing monster slow array Sinks on the anvil-all about, the faces fiery For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy grow: couch of clay; Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry bang, bang! the sledges go; craftsmen here Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the and low; sighing seamen's cheer— A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- | When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from ing blow; love and home; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the cinders strew ocean-foam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou hadst life like me, What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea! O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? – The hoary monster's palaces!— Methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce seaunicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade for- Swing in your strokes in order! let foot and hand To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid keep time; Norwegian isles Your blows make music sweeter far than any | He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed steeple's chime. miles |