"The Village Blacksmith" (continued) 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, Onwards through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something tempted, something done, Had earned a nights repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson though hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on it's sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! By Henry Wadsworth Longellow. |
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The background music on this page is "The Black Cat Rag".
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