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THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

TH

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

HE beginning, the working, and the finishing of a piece of work, cannot frequently be seen at a sitting. Such a sight when presented is always fascinating. The blacksmith's shop usually abounds in opportunities for observing this. A poet or a lecturer, working in a serious attempt at fashioning the lives of men, has a natural interest in such moulding of material things. As Longfellow watched the mechanical success of his friend, the village smith, recalled his sturdy independence, noted his cheerful philosophy as exhibited in his daily walk of life, his poet's heart wrought out the things set down for us in the following simple poem of which he wrote in his diary October 5, 1839: "Wrote a new Psalm of Life. It is The Village Blacksmith." It is a matter of keen interest to all, that the school children of Boston presented Longfellow with a beautiful carved chair made from the "spreading chestnuttree" which stood over the old blacksmith shop in Brattle Street, Cambridge. The chair is still preserved and proudly shown to thousands of visitors who visit the Longfellow home annually.

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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 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.

SUGGESTIVE EXERCISES

1. What are you made to see clearly in the first two stanzas? 2. What beautiful sounds are mentioned?

3. What beautiful sights?

4. How many of the smith's emotions does the poet describe? 5. Where is pathos introduced?

6. Where are things usually regarded as opposite characteristics shown to be closely allied?

7. Mention as many of the smith's characteristics as you can.

8. Are any of these the result of inference alone?

9. What are we shown that makes up the smith's life?

10. How many maxims that go to make up a rule for right living are we given?

11. Just what lesson was the poet taught by the smith?
12. What is the key to a happy life according to Longfellow?

REFERENCES

LONGFELLOW: From My Arm Chair. Keramos.

WHITTIER: Cobbler Keezar's Vision. Among the Hills.
MACKAY: Tubal Cain.

W

VIRTUE

GEORGE HERBERT

HEN Shakespeare was at the height of his literary powers, there lived and wrote a poet whose life was spirit-filled. He was a strict churchman, a devout follower of the lowly Nazarene, and a writer whose songs have inspired all well-doers to rise heavenward on the wings of adoration. His life rang true; and his genuine sincerity is stamped on all he wrote. His poetry sounds forth two great strains. The major strain is the immortality of the soul. The minor strain is the mortality of all things earthly. Henry Morley, the great English writer and critic says of him, "When the mind is fastened to George Herbert's verse we may think we've an angel by the wings."

The following poem contains the essence of Herbert's teaching and is the briefest, tenderest, simplest, truest interpretation of the doctrine of the immortality of the soul yet found in English song and story.

VIRTUE

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

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