His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, 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, 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! THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 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, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! 161 ENDYMION. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow Upon the meadows low. On such a tranquil night as this, When, sleeping in the grove He dreamed not of her love. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Its deep, impassioned gaze. It comes, the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone To seek the elected one. 163 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! Are fraught with fear and pain, |