Eight times emerging from the flood Some speedy aid to send: No dolphin came, no naiad stirr'd, A favourite has no friend! 6. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, 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 him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school 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. Gray. He goes on Sunday to the church, 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, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Each morning sees some task begun, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Longfellow. 7.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound 66 Cries, Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound "To row us o'er the ferry." "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, “This dark and stormy water? " "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, "And this Lord Ullin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men "Three days we've fled together, "For should he find us in the glen, "My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride; "Should they our steps discover, "Then who will cheer my bonny bride "When they have slain her lover ? " Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready; "It is not for your silver bright: "But for your winsome lady: "And by my word! the bonny bird "In danger shall not tarry; 66 'So, though the waves are raging white, "I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; But still as wilder blew the wind, "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 66 Though tempests round us gather; "I'll meet the raging of the skies, "But not an angry father." |