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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 to night,
You can hear the 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 ;

He needs must think of her once more
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!


A CHIEFTAIN to the highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman do not tarry,

And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry!"

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle And this, Lord Ullin's daughter :

"And fast before her father's men,

Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen,

My blood will stain the heather :-

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover ?”

Out spake the highland wight,

"I'll go, my chief—I'm ready ; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady!

"And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ;


So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry!"

By this the storm grew apace,
The water wraith was shrieking,
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer!

"Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries;
Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached the fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover,

One lovely arm was stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your highland chief,
"My daughter, oh! my daughter!"

'Twas vain! the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing :

The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.




TORCHES were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,

Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.

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