228

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

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 morn 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!

LONGFELLOW.

THE VOICE OF THE GRASS

HERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

By the dusty roadside,

On the sunny hillside,

Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
All around the open door,

Where sit the aged poor,

Here where the children play,

In the bright, merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

In the noisy city street,

My pleasant face you'll meet

Cheering the sick at heart,

Toiling his busy part,

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

You cannot see me coming,

You hear my low, sweet humming;

For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come, quietly creeping everywhere.

230

THE VOICE OF THE GRASS

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're numbered with the dead

In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come,
And deck your silent home,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

MARY HOWITT.

THE CHILD'S WORLD

REAT, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

GR

With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breastWorld, you are beautifully drest!

The wonderful air is over me,

And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree;
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the top of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers today,

A whisper inside me seemed to say,

"You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot."

"LILLIPUT Levee."

UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT

HEAD*

UPON the mountain's distant head,

With trackless snows forever white,

Where all is still and cold and dead,
Late shines the day's departing light.

But far below those icy rocks,

The vales in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,

Are dim with mist and dark with shade.

'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
And eyes whose generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life depart,

But lingers with the cold and stern.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

* Used by permission of D. Appleton & Co.