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At peace the distant shallop rides;
Were beating round her gloriously;
With parted hours of ecstasy.
Stars of the many-spangled heaven!
Ye rear your dazzling galaxy;
For ever swells your harmony.
O for some sadly dying note
The lyre might wake its melody;
That slumbers not its minstrelsy.
THERE IS AN HOUR of deep repose
Shall burst upon me wondrously;
Be lost in Immortality!
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands ;
With large and sinewy hands;
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.
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;
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 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.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies;
A tear from out his eyes.
Onward through life he goes :
Each evening sees it close;
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.