MISCELLANEOUS. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree With large and sinewy hands; 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, 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, He hears the parson pray and preach, And it makes his heart rejoice: It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Each burning deed and thought! ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, 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 Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep. And kisses the closed eyes Of him, who slumbering lies. O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! Are fraught with fear and pain, |