 | Western windows and other poems |  |
218
THE DESERTED SMITHY.
At the end of the lane and in sight of the mill,
Is the smithy; I pass it to-day, in a dream
Of the days whose red blood in my bosom is warm
While the real alone as the vanish'd I deem:
For the years they may crumble to dust in the heart,
But the roses will bloom though the gravestones depart.
Is the smithy; I pass it to-day, in a dream
Of the days whose red blood in my bosom is warm
While the real alone as the vanish'd I deem:
For the years they may crumble to dust in the heart,
But the roses will bloom though the gravestones depart.
In the loneliest evenings of long ago,
The smithy was dear in the darkness to me,
When the clouds were all heaping the world with their snow,
And the wind shiver'd over dead leaves on the tree;
Through the snow-shower it seemed to be bursting aflame:
How the sparks in the dark from the chimney came!
The smithy was dear in the darkness to me,
When the clouds were all heaping the world with their snow,
And the wind shiver'd over dead leaves on the tree;
Through the snow-shower it seemed to be bursting aflame:
How the sparks in the dark from the chimney came!
219
It was dear in the past—and still it is dear,
In the memory old of the vanishing time,
When the binging and banging, and clinging and clanging,
In the heart of my boyhood, were music and rhyme;
When the bellows groan'd to the furnace-glow,
And the lights thro' the chinks danced out in the snow.
In the memory old of the vanishing time,
When the binging and banging, and clinging and clanging,
In the heart of my boyhood, were music and rhyme;
When the bellows groan'd to the furnace-glow,
And the lights thro' the chinks danced out in the snow.
The irons within on the anvils were ringing:
There were glowing arms in the bursting gleam;
And shadows were glowering away in the gloaming,
That, suddenly bounding to giants, would seem
Now out of the open doorways to spring,
Now up in the rafters vanishing.
There were glowing arms in the bursting gleam;
And shadows were glowering away in the gloaming,
That, suddenly bounding to giants, would seem
Now out of the open doorways to spring,
Now up in the rafters vanishing.
The smith I remember: oh, many a smile
Has played on his lips with me, and kind
Were the words that would lighten the gloom of his face—
His face, at the memory, gleams in my mind!—
With a heart that could beat in the heart of a boy,
A heart for his sorrow, a heart for his joy!
Has played on his lips with me, and kind
Were the words that would lighten the gloom of his face—
His face, at the memory, gleams in my mind!—
With a heart that could beat in the heart of a boy,
A heart for his sorrow, a heart for his joy!
220
Adown from the farm of my father once more
(That so long has forgotten us up on the hill)—
With the wings in my blood to the bound of the steed,
That passes the breezes so merry and shrill—
I seem to be flying; but, suddenly,
In the Past, alone, is my memory!
(That so long has forgotten us up on the hill)—
With the wings in my blood to the bound of the steed,
That passes the breezes so merry and shrill—
I seem to be flying; but, suddenly,
In the Past, alone, is my memory!
In a dream!—in a dream! But I pass it to-day:
No longer the furnace is bursting with flame;
No longer the music comes out of the door,
That, long ago, to the schoolboy came:
The winds whisper low thro' the window and door,
The chimney is part of the dust of the floor.
No longer the furnace is bursting with flame;
No longer the music comes out of the door,
That, long ago, to the schoolboy came:
The winds whisper low thro' the window and door,
The chimney is part of the dust of the floor.
Phœbe Morris! sweet Phœbe! the sweetest of girls
That brighten'd old dreams with a beautiful face!—
It may be she smiled from her father's lips,
And blossom'd her smile in the dusky place!
Ah, she smiles, to-day, in my boyhood for me,
With her lips that are kissing—a memory!
That brighten'd old dreams with a beautiful face!—
It may be she smiled from her father's lips,
And blossom'd her smile in the dusky place!
Ah, she smiles, to-day, in my boyhood for me,
With her lips that are kissing—a memory!
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