THE WHISKERS.

"Nothing on earth but you I prize,
All else is trifling in my eyes;
And cheerfully would I resign

The wealth of worlds to call you mine.
But, if another gain your hand,
Far distant from my native land,
Far hence from you and hope I'll fly,
And in some foreign region die.”

The virgin heard, and thus replied:
"If my consent to be your bride
Will make you happy, then be blest;
But grant me, first, one small request;
A sacrifice I must demand,

And in return will give my hand."

"A sacrifice! O speak its name,

For you I'd forfeit wealth and fame;

Take my whole fortune-every cent-"

""Twas something more than wealth I meant."

"Must I the realms of nature trace?
O speak the word-where'er the place,
For you, the idol of my soul,
I'd e'en explore the frozen pole;
Arabia's sandy deserts tread,
Or trace the Tigris to its head."

"O no, dear sir, I do not ask
So long a voyage, so hard a task;
You must-but ah! the boon I want,
I have no hope that you will grant."

"Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire
To be the world's imperial sire?
Express the wish, and here I vow,
To place a crown upon your brow."

"Sir, these are trifles,"--she replied-
"But, if you wish me for your bride.

81.

82

THE WHISKERS.

You must-but still I fear to speak-
You'll never grant the boon I seek."

66

"O say," he cried-" dear angel, say—

What must I do, and I obey;

No longer rack me with suspense,

Speak your commands, and send me hence."

"Well, then, dear, generous youth!" she cries,
"If thus my heart you really prize,
And wish to link your fate with mine,

On one condition I am thine;
'Twill then become my pleasing duty,
To contemplate a husband's beauty;
And, gazing on your manly face,
His feelings and his wishes trace;
To banish thence each mark of caré,
And light a smile of pleasure there.
O let me, then, 'tis all I ask,
Commence at once the pleasing task;
O let me, as becomes my place,

Cut those huge whiskers from your face."

She said-but O, what strange surprise
Was pictured in her lover's eyes!

Like lightning from the ground he sprung,
While wild amazement tied his tongue;
A statue, motionless, he gazed,
Astonished, horror-struck, amazed.
So looked the gallant Perseus, when
Medusa's visage met his ken;
So looked Macbeth, whose guilty eye
Discerned an "air-drawn dagger" nigh;
And so the prince of Denmark stared,
When first his father's ghost appeared.

At length our hero silence broke,
And thus in wildest accents spoke:
"Cut off my whiskers! O ye gods!
I'd sooner lose my ears, by odds;

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Madam, I'd not be so disgraced,

So lost to fashion and to taste,

To win an empress to my arms,

Though blest with more than mortal charms.
My whiskers! zounds!" He said no more,
But quick retreated through the door,
And sought a less obdurate fair

To take the beau with all his hair.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.-LONGFELLOW.

[NDER a spreading chestnut-tree,

UND

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 out, week in, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the old kirk chimes,
When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door:

They love to see a flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks, that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

83

84

THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.

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 from out 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 wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil shaped,
Each burning deed and thought.

THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.-DIMOND.

N slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,

IN

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;

But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear, native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood side-wise, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,—
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest— "O God! thou hast blest me,-I ask for no more."

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound that now 'larums his ear?
'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky!
"Tis the crashing of thunder, the groan of the sphere!

He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire;-—
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell;
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy
to save ;-
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his black wings o'er the wave.

O sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ;Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again.

Shall love, home, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

85