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WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

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      It was the schooner Hesperus,

       That sailed the wintry sea;

      And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

       To bear him company.

      Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

       Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

      And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,

       That ope in the month of May.

      The skipper he stood beside the helm,

       His pipe was in his month,

      And he watched how the veering flaw did blow

       The smoke now West, now South.

      Then up and spake an old Sailor,

       Had sailed to the Spanish Main,

      "I pray thee, put into yonder port,

       For I fear a hurricane.

      "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,

       And to-night no moon we see!"

      The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,

       And a scornful laugh laughed he.

      Colder and louder blew the wind,

       A gale from the Northeast.

      The snow fell hissing in the brine,

       And the billows frothed like yeast.

      Down came the storm, and smote amain

       The vessel in its strength;

      She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,

       Then leaped her cable's length.

      "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,

       And do not tremble so;

      For I can weather the roughest gale

       That ever wind did blow."

      He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat

       Against the stinging blast;

      He cut a rope from a broken spar,

       And bound her to the mast.

      "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,

       O say, what may it be?"

       "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—

       And he steered for the open sea.

      "O father! I hear the sound of guns,

       O say, what may it be?"

      "Some ship in distress, that cannot live

       In such an angry sea!"

      "O father! I see a gleaming light

       O say, what may it be?"

      But the father answered never a word,

       A frozen corpse was he.

      Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,

       With his face turned to the skies,

      The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow

       On his fixed and glassy eyes.

      Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed

       That saved she might be;

      And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,

       On the Lake of Galilee.

      And fast through the midnight dark and drear,

       Through the whistling sleet and snow,

      Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept

       Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

      And ever the fitful gusts between

       A sound came from the land;

      It was the sound of the trampling surf

       On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

      The breakers were right beneath her bows,

       She drifted a dreary wreck,

      And a whooping billow swept the crew

       Like icicles from her deck.

      She struck where the white and fleecy waves

       Looked soft as carded wool,

      But the cruel rocks, they gored her side

       Like the horns of an angry bull.

      Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,

       With the masts went by the board;

      Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,

       Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

      At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,

       A fisherman stood aghast,

      To see the form of a maiden fair,

       Lashed close to a drifting mast.

      The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

       The salt tears in her eyes;

      And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

       On the billows fall and rise.

      Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

       In the midnight and the snow!

      Christ save us all from a death like this,

       On the reef of Norman's Woe!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

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      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 bear 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,

      

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