A RHYME FOR WORKERS.
Ernest Watmongh.
LOVER! When thy chosen fair one,
With averted eye,
Looks upon thee, coldly frowning,
Deigns thee no reply;
Leave her not in hasty passion,
If you love her true;
Take this motto for your watch-word"He who'd win must woo."
Scholar, o'er the volume bending
By the glimmering lamp,
Let not fortune, unbefriending,
All thy ardor damp.
If the object that thou seekest
Fade before thy view,
Heed it not, still onward struggle-
"He who'd win must woo."
Worker who for gold art seeking,
Striving night and day,
Be not cast down when misfortune
Sweeps thy all away.
Try again, from small beginnings
Great results we view;
Labor always meets with blessings,
"He who'd win must woo."
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;
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.
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.
ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had pealed along the deep;
And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark from India's coral strand
Before the rushing blast,
Had veil'd her topsails to the sand,
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!
We saw her proud flag struck that morn—
A star once o'er the seas;
Her helm beat down, her deck upborne-
And sadder things than these!
We saw her treasures cast away,
The rocks with pearl were sown;
And, strangely sad! the ruby's ray
Flashed out on fretted stone.
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze;
And gorgeous robes- but oh! that shore
Had sadder sights than these?
We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that lip, and rigid brow,
Not without strife he died!
And near him, on the sea-weed lay—
Till then we had not wept;
But well our gushing hearts might say
That there a mother slept.
For her pale arms a babe had pressed,
With such a wreathing grasp;
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.
Her very tresses had been flung,
To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their fair long streamers clung, All tangled by the storm.
And, beautiful 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumbers, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye;
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony.
Oh, human love! whose yearning hearts
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu!
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