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With large and sinewy hands;
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door ;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears his daughter's voice,
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.
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
And kisses the closed eyes
0, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes ! 0, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
No one is so accursed by fate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds,-as if with unseen wings,
And whispers, in its song,
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.
FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER.
A YOUTH, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world ;
And straight again is furled.