THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

A moment in the British camp —

A moment and away

Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

-

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.

49

William Cullen Bryant.

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

Toiling, rejoicing,

eyes.

sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

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!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest,

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;

White are his shoulders and white his crest.
Hear him call in his merry note:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,

51

Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note.
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!
Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!

There, as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink ;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown ;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

53

William Cullen Bryant.