Till the smooth temper of my age should be And as, when all the summer trees are seen The holly leaves their fadeless lines display But when the bare and wintry woods we see, So would I seem, amid the young and gay, That in my age as cheerful I might be SOUTHEY. 82. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. NDER a spreading chestnut tree UNDER The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 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, 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 eyes. A tear out of his Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes: K Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, LONGFELLOW. 83. THE BOOK OF NATURE. Are pages in that book, to show The moon above, the Church below, But all their radiance, all their glow, The Saviour lends the light and heat The saints, like stars, around His seat The saints above are stars in Heaven. Like trees they stand, whom God has given Our Eden's happy birth. Faith is their fix'd unswerving root, Hope their unfading flower, Fair deeds of charity their fruit, The glory of their bower. The dew of Heaven is like Thy grace; But where it lights the favour'd place One Name above all glorious names, The raging fire, the roaring wind, Two worlds are ours: 'tis only sin The mystic heaven and earth within, Thou who hast given me eyes to see Give me a heart to find out Thee, And read Thee everywhere! KEBLE. 84. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. [From CHILDE Harold.] STOP! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust, Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so: As the ground was before, thus let it be.How that red rain-hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is!—it is!—the cannon's opening roar! |