The heavens far and near

To me are solemn, and so bright
They seem to open to my sight;

The Sabbath morn is here!

Transl. from the German of Uhland by F. TOWNSEND.

THE SHEPHERD BOY.

UPON the mountain's sunny side,

Far up the grassy steep,

All day the little shepherd boy
Keeps watch beside his sheep.

He comes there, ere the red of dawn
Has faded from the heaven,

He stays there, till the first bright dews
Begin to fall at even.

The hours so full of change to us,
To him unvarying pass,
I ever see him lying there,
Outstretched upon the grass.

The yellow blossoms on the furze,
Do close beside him blow,
He stretches out a listless hand,
And plucks them as they grow.

And sometimes the long feather grass,
With idle hand he weaves,

Or pulls the purple clover flower,
And sucks its honeyed leaves.

But still he lieth there, his face,
Upturned to the blue sky,

And sees the broad sun wax and wane,
And marks the shadows fly.

The sun-bleached locks upon his brow,

Wave softly in the wind,

I often wonder as I pass,

What thoughts are in his mind.

And still I think that simple child,
Thus, far from strife, and ill,
Alone with sun, and cloud, and field,
Upon the wide green hill,

Has surely with God's wondrous things
In closer commune grown,

And holy thoughts have come to him,
Out in the pasture lone.

He needs must think Whose hand outspread
That sky so bright and wide,

And carved the little blade of grass,

He looks on, at his side.

And when a shadow on the turf,

Has paused awhile, and fled,

He deems perchance, some guardian wing
Was folded o'er his head.

And when the gloom of twilight falls,
Just as he hastens home,

He thinks how angels in the night,
Did once to shepherds come.

Still to his eye the sunset clouds,
With amber tipped, and gold,
Are gates before a brighter world,
O might they once unfold!

I know not, if in truth, his heart,
Thus glows with dreams of joy ;
But such I deem, might well befit,
A lonely shepherd boy.

C. F. ALEXANDER.

THE BLACKSMITH.

My lover I hear!
The hammer he swings,
It whirrs and it rings;
Through the city around,
As a bell it doth sound,
Now far and now near.

My treasure he sits

In the chimney nook,
I will pass by and look.

Hark! the bellows they creak,
They sigh and they shriek !

And the flame round him flits.

Transl. from the German of Uhland by F. TOWNSEND.

STRIKE THE IRON WHILE IT'S HOT.

WITH the light be up and doing,

For there's danger in delay;
Hope deferred but leads to ruin,
Now or never, wins the day.
With the thought the deed begin it,
Act at once upon the spot;
What you'd gain, the way to win it,
Strike the iron while it's hot.

Strike the iron, &c.

Good advice ye need not spurn it,

But the man who'll soonest rise
Faces danger but to turn it,

And upon himself relies.
Never wait another's aiding,
You yourself may be forgot;
Lose no time in vain upbraiding,
Strike the iron while it's hot.

Strike the iron, &c.

Would ye do a kindly action,
Though your aid be vainly lent,
There is still the satisfaction

That the act was kindly meant.
Pause not then to ask another,
If to do the deed or not,
Look on each as on a brother,
Strike the iron while it's hot.

Strike the iron, &c.

J. E. CARPENter.

THE BRITISH ANCHOR.

FILL up your mystic fires, a noble work is thine; Who forge the British anchors, the dwellers of the brine;

It seemeth round the lurid flame some magic rite ye

keep,

Creating from that shapeless mass the diver of the

deep;

No sound is in the old dockyard, all hearts are in one

spot,

Where now the living liquid fire is raging white and hot.

The signal's given-strike, stalwart men, your lion prowess keep;

Huzza! they've forged the anchor, the diver of the deep! Oh, the anchors of our navy are the emblems of the free,

They guard our giant ships from wreck on many a stormy sea;

They tell the brave and gallant hearts that dwell upon the main,

What joys shall greet them when they sleep on British shores again.

Then honour to the anchor, though it never shall abide, While there's war upon the billow, in its home beneath the tide;

For the ploughers of the ocean their name and fame must keep,

As strong, as firm, as faithful, as the diver of the deep. E. J. LODER.

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 its 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!

LONGFELLOW.