15

As for the language in which Evangeline, Miles Standish' courtship, the Golden Legend, The Spanish Student and Hiawatha, as well as the numerus lyrical poems, original, imitated and translated, are couched, they all betray no common mastership and linguistic talents assisted by sound philological studies. Among Longfellow's lyrics*) the translations from the German are distinguished for faithful

*) The Two Locks of Hair.

A youth, light hearted and content, I wander trough the world;,

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream that once a wife Close in my heart was locked,

And in the sweet repose of life A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,— away! Too long did it remain!

So long that both by night and day It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought; To a grave so cold and deep

(Pfizer.)

The mother beautiful was brought; Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er, I bathe mine eyes and see;

And wander through the world once more, A youth so light and free.

Two locks,— and they are wondrons fair,— Left me that vision mild;

The brown is from the mother's hair, The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock ef gold Pale grows the evening red;

And when the dark lock I behold, I wish that I were dead.

The Village Blacksmith.

Unter 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, form morn till night, NYou 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 open forge, And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a thrashing-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 wronght;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thonght!