Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd. They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again. VILLACE BLACKSMITH UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree 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, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 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, 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, Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, It comes,--the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone, To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep And kisses the closed eyes O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! Are fraught with fear and pain, No one is so accursed by fate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds, as if, with unseen wings, “Where hast thou stayed so long?” IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay Pájaros en los nidos de Antaño.-Spanish Proverb. So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new ;-the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ;There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love, |