Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, 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, Something attempted, something done, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! THE GOBLET OF LIFE. ILLED is Life's goblet to the brim, And chant a melancholy hymn With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers, no garlands green, Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, And as it mantling passes round, Above the lowly plants it towers, Was gifted with the wondrous powers, It gave new strength, and fearless mood; |