SUMMER MIDNIGHT.

At peace the distant shallop rides;
Not as when dashing o'er her sides
The roaring bay's unruly tides

Were beating round her gloriously;
But every sail is furld and still :
Silent the seaman's whistle shrill,
While dreamy slumbers seem to thrill

With parted hours of ecstasy.

Stars of the many-spangled heaven!
Faintly this night your beams are given,
Though proudly where your hosts are driven

Ye rear your dazzling galaxy;
Since far and wide a softer hue
Is spread across the plains of blue,
Where in bright chorus, ever true,

For ever swells your harmony.

O for some sadly dying note
Upon this silent hour to float,
Where from the bustling world remote

The lyre might wake its melody;
One feeble strain is all can swell
From mine almost deserted shell,
In mournful accents yet to tell

That slumbers not its minstrelsy.

SUMMER MIDNIGHT.

THERE IS AN HOUR of deep repose
That yet upon my heart shall close,
When all that nature dreads and knows

Shall burst upon me wondrously;
O may I then awake for ever
My heart to rapture's high endeavour,
And as from earth’s vain scene I sever,

Be lost in Immortality!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

UNDER a spreading chestnut 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 out, week in, 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 old kirk chimes

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.

THE VILLAGE BLACASMITH.

37

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 from out his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing

Onward through life he goes :
Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it 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.