THE VILLAGE

BLACKSMITH.

111

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!

THE DEAD.

BY GEORGE F. TALBOT.

THE mighty dead, earth's teeming brood, Say, whither are they gone?

I move amidst life's busy crowd,

And feel almost alone.

Thou greedy earth, whose fertile rind
With human gore is drunk,
What is thy solid mould but men,

That 'neath thy soil have sunk?

Oh! cruel mother, yield us back
Each much loved form and face,
To the mute yearnings of our love
Give back our ravished race.

THE DEAD.

Where o'er thine orb from pole to pole,
Did man ne'er yield his breath?
What space hast thou of sea or shore
Unhallowed by a death?

Thy fields yield verdure fair as erst
Creation's new spring bore;

Thine unchanged mountains sport a dress
As rich, as e'er they wore.

Thy zephyrs yet blow coolly by,
Thy woodland streams run free;

As pure an azure tints thy sky,
As deep a blue thy sea.

And yet not all thy aspects, Earth,

Of changeless joy appear;

Not all unknelled the dead have gone,
Not all unwept their bier.

There's moaning for them in the rush
Of the forest-shaking gale;

The waves, that roll o'er mouldering men,
For them hoarse requiem wail.

There's sobbing in the thunder-cloud
And tear drops fall in showers,

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And widowed nature yearly mourns,
And lays aside her flowers.

From him, who felt the unknown pang
Of death, the doomed of God;

To those, whose unchanged forms now lie
Scarce cold beneath the sod;

How oft disease, and sword, and flood,
Have reaped earth's harvest o'er,
And all her myriad, myriad race,
To their dark garner bore.

Hushed is the Medes' invading tramp,

Their spears consumed with rust,

The host that swelled through Babel's gates, Have mingled with their dust.

On Afric's stormy strand are thrown
The Tyrians and their gain,

Nor now can boast the fearful ones,
Who tempted ne'er the main.

Mourn not the Greek on Marathon,
Or 'neath the Attic waves,-

The nation, rescued by their death,

Sunk in less glorious graves.

THE DEAD.

Time, Carthage, has avenged thy wrongs,

The haughty throng, that led

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Thy captive sons through Rome's proud streets,

Are numbered with thy dead.

Jerusalem weeps not her slain,

Nor hates her conquering foes,—

The mountains saved not them who fled,

Nor yet their victory those.

Ranks fell on ranks on Waterloo,

And Borodino's plain,

And Russia's snows have crimson grown

With blood of thousands slain.

The peasant by his cottage fire,
The noble in his hall,

The savage in his wilderness,
Before the slayer fall.

Oh! all the race of men are dead,
And earth is sad and drear!

Like flitting shadows of the past,

A few still linger here.