And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,

In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep

Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders, foaming, by!
When seas are silent and serene

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.

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;

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 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.

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 closeSomething 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 wroughtThus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The Song of the Forge.

CLANG, clang! the massive anvils ring;
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing-
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply –
Clang, clang!

Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now?

Clang, clang!- we forge the coulter now-
The coulter of the kindly plough.

Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil!
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil!

Clang, clang!—our coulter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sheltered lea,

By many a streamlet's silver tide-
Amidst the song of morning birds,
Amidst the low of sauntering herds-
Amidst soft breezes, which do stray
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May,
Along the green hill's side.

When regal autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land-
When to the valleys, from the brow
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled
A ruddy sea of living gold —

We bless, we bless the plough.

Clang, clang!— again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink, clank!— we forge the giant chain,
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain
'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.

Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
Calmly he rests- though far away,
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay —
Reliant on our skill.

Say on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep?
By Afric's pestilential shore;

By many an iceberg, lone and hoar;
By many a palmy western isle,
Basking in spring's perpetual smile;
By stormy Labrador.

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal

The crashing broadside makes reply;
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,

Hold grappling ships, that strive the while For death or victory?

Hurrah!-cling, clang!—once more, what glows,
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,

The furnace's red breath?

Clang, clang! -a burning torrent, clear And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured Around, and up in the dusky air,

As our hammers forge the sword.

The sword! - a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound-
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,

The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound How sacred is it then!

Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight-
Whether in some wild mountain-pass,
As that where fell Leonidas;
Or on some sterile plain and stern,
A Marston, or a Bannockburn;
Or amidst crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills;
Or as when sunk the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide —