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 !

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.

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!

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars ; Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green,

With shadows brown between.

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,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought ;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays

Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes, the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity, –

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

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.