Home thoughts, a monthly magazine of literature, science, and domestic economy, Utgåva 1–4

Framsida
1853
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Sida 50 - 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, m And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Sida 50 - 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 it...
Sida 117 - 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.
Sida 50 - 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.
Sida 50 - A tear out of 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.
Sida 50 - 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 ia low.
Sida 65 - man becomes infirm and weary of the world, " he is said to invite his own children to eat him " in the season when salt and limes are cheapest. " He then ascends a tree, round which his friends " and offspring assemble, and as they shake the " tree, join in a funeral dirge, the import of " which is, ' The season is come, the fruit is ripe,
Sida 117 - twill burn forever 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.
Sida 38 - Let us imagine, for a moment, a stranger from another planet to visit our globe, and to contemplate and compare the manners of its inhabitants, and let him first witness some brilliant spectacle in one of the highly civilised countries of Europe, — the coronation of a monarch, the installation of St.
Sida 117 - Welcome, Spring ! rejoice ! rejoice !" Spring is coming ! — Come, my brother, Let us rove with one another To our well-remembered wild-wood, Flourishing in Nature's childhood, Where a thousand flowers are springing, And a thousand birds are singing ; Where the golden sunbeams quiver On the verdure-bordered river ; Let our youth of feeling out To the youth of Nature shout, While the waves repeat our voice — • " Welcome, Spring ! rejoice ! rejoice !

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