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,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door ;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

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.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise ! lle needs must think of her once more,

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

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 close ; Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought !

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Ire Life’s oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.

0, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes ! 0, drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds,-as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings ;

And whispers, in its song,
“ Where hast thou stayed so long ?”

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER.

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content,

I wander through the world ;
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent,

And straight again is furled.