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 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!
H.W. LONGFLLLOW.
[Notes: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, one of the foremost among contemporary American poets. Born in 1807. His chief poems are ‘Evangeline’ and ‘Hiawatha.’
His face is like the tan. Tan is the bark of the oak, bruised and broken for tanning leather.
Thus at the flaming forge of life, &c. = As iron is softened at the forge and beaten into shape on the anvil, so by the trials and circumstances of life, our thoughts and actions are influenced and our characters and destinies decided. The metaphor is made more complicated by being broken up.]
* * * * *
MEN OF ENGLAND.
Men of England!
who inherit
Rights
that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate
spirit
Has
been proved on land and flood:
By the foes ye’ve
fought uncounted,
By
the glorious deeds ye’ve done,
Trophies captured—breaches
mounted,
Navies
conquer’d—kingdoms won!
Yet remember,
England gathers
Hence
but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the virtues
of your fathers
Glow
not in your hearts the same.