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The skipper he stgod beside the helm,
With his pipe th his mouth,
The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main, “I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
“Last night the moon bad a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
A gale from the North-east; The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steer!,
Then leaped her cable's length. “Come hither! come hither ! my little daughtír,
And do not tremble so;
That ever wind did blow.
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat,
Against the stinging blast;
And bound her to the mast.
" ( father! I hear the church-bells ring,
O say, what may it be ?” " 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"
And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! hear the sound of guns,
In such an angry sea !"
O say, what may it be?”
A frozen corpse was he.
With his facepto the skies,
On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed
That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts, went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared !
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-wedd,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
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;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
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 his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice.
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies ;
A tear out of his eyes.
Onward through life he goes ;
Each evening sees it close;
Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy frien:!,
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!
The rising moon has hid the stars ;
Lie on the landscape green,