The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her side. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, Christ save us all from a death like this, 778 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree 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, 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, He needs must think of her once more And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 779 SERENADE FROM THE SPANISH STUDENT' STARS of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps! Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch! while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps! 780 THE RAINY DAY THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 781 THE DAY IS DONE THE day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. |