On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
Lo! the strange steed had departed,
And they knew not when nor where.

But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod.

From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

INDER 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 hear 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,
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 its 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 LAST LEAF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

SAW him once before,

As he passed by the door,
And again

The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,

That it seems as if he said,

And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said

Poor old lady, she is dead

Long ago

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.