Sweetly along the Salem road
  Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 
  Little the wicked skipper knew
  Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 
  Riding there in his sorry trim,
  Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
  Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
  Of voices shouting, far and near: 
    “Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
    Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a corrt
      By the women o’ Morble’ead!”

  “Hear me, neighbors!” at last he cried,—­
  “What to me is this noisy ride? 
  What is the shame that clothes the skin
  To the nameless horror that lives within? 
  Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
  And hear a cry from a reeling deck! 
  Hate me and curse me,—­I only dread
  The hand of God and the face of the dead!”
    Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
      By the women of Marblehead!

  Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
  Said, “God has touched him!  Why should we?”
  Said an old wife, mourning her only son: 
  “Cut the rogue’s tether and let him run!”
  So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
  Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
  And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
  And left him alone with his shame and sin. 
    Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
      By the women of Marblehead!

J.G.  WHITTIER.

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.