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 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! H.W. LONGFLLLOW. [Notes: _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_, one of the foremost among contemporary American poets. Born in 1807. His chief poems are 'Evangeline' and 'Hiawatha.' _His face is like the tan. Tan_ is the bark of the oak, bruised and broken for tanning leather. _Thus at the flaming forge of life, &c._ = As iron is softened at the forge and beaten into shape on the anvil, so by the trials and circumstances of life, our thoughts and actions are influenced and our characters and destinies decided. The metaphor is made more complicated by being broken up.] * * * * * MEN OF ENGLAND. Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood: By the foes ye've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye've done, Trophies captured--breaches mounted, Navies conquer'd--kingdoms won! Yet remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the virtues of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? Pageants!--let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's Russell's glory, Sydney's matchless shade is your,-- Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a thousand Agincourts!