Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . Waits until his shoes are sped;And the merry blacksmith plies His sturdy strength to wondering eyesHinging, ringing, bravely ringing, Up and down his hammer swinging,Eiery jets about him flinging. There at noon the maiden lingers, There, perchance, will stop—While their needle-work her fingers All unheeding drop ;So she lingers and she watches Sparks each other chase,Till a cheery glance she catches Erom a swart and smiling thoughts the hammer lighten, Loving looks the smithy brighten,As the anvil ringing, ringing, Answers to the hamm
Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . Waits until his shoes are sped;And the merry blacksmith plies His sturdy strength to wondering eyesHinging, ringing, bravely ringing, Up and down his hammer swinging,Eiery jets about him flinging. There at noon the maiden lingers, There, perchance, will stop—While their needle-work her fingers All unheeding drop ;So she lingers and she watches Sparks each other chase,Till a cheery glance she catches Erom a swart and smiling thoughts the hammer lighten, Loving looks the smithy brighten,As the anvil ringing, ringing, Answers to the hammers swinging,Eiery jets about it flinging. There at pleasant hours of even, Sober, cool, and grey,When the church-clock striking seven, Grives the green to play,White-haired gossipers are gathered Bound the smithy door,AVhere no waiting horse is tethered, And the anvils clink is oer;Cooled the forges fitful heat, Hushed the hammers measured beat,All day ringing, bravely ringing, To the sturdy forgemans swinging,Eiery jets about him 12 XIII. THE WATERING-PLACE. Under skies of tropic heat, Over sands that scorch the feet, By dry beds of parched-up streams, How many an Englishman may be Wrapped even now in pleasant dreams Of English coolth and greenery! How many a head, that tossing prest A hot and fever-fretted pillow, May find surcease of its unrest In visions of cool-shadowing willow, That with its fresh green boughs doth look In the mirror of the brook, Where it broadens to a bay, Letting the currents go their way, And lying dark and glassy-still As a pool above a mill, Save when stirred by red-webbed oar Of sultan drake who puts from shore, And proud his painted harem leads To their seraglio in the reeds ; Or when at eve the weary team With loosened traces seek the stream, And, eager their parched throats to cool, Drive widening circles oer the pool. Above the sleepers head the punkah swings, The dreamer sees the waving of the willows ; Outside, the jackal yelps,
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Keywords: ., bookauthordalzielgeorge18151902, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1860
