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 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 hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a thrashing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, Singing in the village choir, 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 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 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, Thus at the flaming forge of life Thus on its sounding anvil shaped ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars, With shadows brown between. On such a tranquil night as this, It comes,--the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone, To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him who slumbering lies. O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds, as if, with unseen wings, "Where hast thou stayed so long?' IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay Pájaros en los nidos de Antano.-Spanish Proverb It seems an outlet from the sky, To some good angel leave the rest; THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, |