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A RHYME FOR WORKERS.
. Lover! when thy chosen fair one,
With averted eye,
Deigns thee no reply;
If you love her true;
" He who'd win must woo.
Scholar, o'er the volume bending
By the glimmering lamp,
All thy ardor damp.
Fade before thy view,
“He who'd win must woo."
Worker! who for gold art seeking,
Striving night and day,
Sweeps thy all away,
Great results we view;
• He who'd win must woo."
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Langfellow. UNDER a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can;
For he owes not any man.
Weck in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low. and children coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in paradise !
How in the grave she lies,
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its 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.
Had pealed along the deep;
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
Before the rushing blast,
And bow'd her noble mast.
The queenly ship-brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her; We saw her mighty cable riven
Like floating gossamer !
A star once o'er the seas;
And sadder things than these !
We saw her treasures cast away,
The rocks with pearl were sown;
Flashed out on fretted stone.
Like ashes by a breeze;
Had sadder sights than these?
We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside ;
Not without strife he died !
Till then we had not wept;
That there a mother slept.
For her pale arms a babe had pressed,
With such a wreathing grasp;
Yet not undone the clasp.
To wrap the fair child's form,
All tangled by the storm.
And, beautiful 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
In melancholy grace.
With half-shut violet eye;
Nought of her agony.
Oh, human love! whose yearning hearts
Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu !