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 thrashing 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!
My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam;
And thou must go-but never, when there,
Forget the light of home.
Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night,
When thou treadest the lonely way.
But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire;
'Twill burn, 'twill burn for ever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.
The sea of ambition is tempest tost,
And thy hopes may vanish like foam;
But when sails are shivered, and rudder lost,
Then look to the light of home.
And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,
Thou shalt see the beacon bright;
For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quenched its holy light.
The sun of fame 'twill gild the name,
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;
And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim,
Are but beams of a wintry day.
And how cold and dim those beams must be,
Should life's wretched wanderer come!
But my boy, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of home.
CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION TO THE POOR.
THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken;
She is a widow; she is old and poor;
Her only hope is in that sacred token
Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er.
She asks nor wealth nor pleasure; begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her
being's night?
She lives in her affections; for the grave
Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the Arm she trusts will save
Though she has never mounted high to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek tender feelings cannot pall
Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.
Even as a fountain whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing as they lave
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers-so softly pour
The breathings of her bosom when she prays,
Low-bowed before her Maker; then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days;
Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving
rays.
And faith can see a new world; and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her. Death will come :
A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow: all its gloom
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee:
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.
Now had the autumn day gone by,
And evening's yellow shade
Had wrapt the mountains and the hills,
And lengthened o'er the glade.
The honey-bee had sought her hive,
The bird her sheltered nest,
And in the hollow valley's gloom
Both wind and wave had rest.
And to a cottar's hut that eve
There came an Indian chief;
And in his frame was weariness,
And in his face was grief.
The feather o'er his head that danced
Was weather-soiled and rent,
And broken were his bow and spear,
And all his arrows spent.
And meek and humble was his speech;
He knew the white man's hand
Was turned against those wasted tribes,
Long scourged from the land.
He prayed but for a simple draught
Of water from the well,
And a poor morsel of the food
That from his table fell.
He said that his old frame had toiled
A wide and weary way,
O'er the sunny lakes and savage hills,
And through the lakes that day.
Yet when he saw they scoffed his words,
He turned away in wo,
And cursed them not, but only mourned
That they should shame him so.
When many years had flown away,
That herdsman of the hill
Went out into the wilderness
The wolf and bear to kill-
To scatter the red deer, and slay
The panther in his lair,
And chase the rapid moose that ranged
The sunless forests there.
And soon his hounds lay dead with toil,
The deer were fierce and fleet,
And the prairie tigers kept aloof
Where they heard his hostile feet.
No bread was in that desert place,
Nor crystal rivulet
To slake the torment of his thirst,
Or his hot brow to wet.
He feared-he feared to die-yet knew
That nought on earth could save;
For none might catch his parting breath
And lay him in his grave.
But lo! while life's dim taper still
Burned feebly in his breast,
A ministering angel came-
His hated Indian guest!
He shared his wheaten loaf with him,
His cup of water shared,
And bore the sick man unto those
For whom his heart most cared.
TU-WHOO! Tu-whoo!-In my ancient hall,
In my old gray turret high,
Where the ivy waves o'er the crumbling wall,
A king-a king reign I!
I wake the woods with my startling call
To the frighted passer-by.
The gadding vines in the chinks that grow,
Come clambering up to me;
And the newt, the bat, and the toad, I trow
A right merry band are we..
Oh, the coffined monks in their cells below
Have no goodlier company!
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