The children's Longfellow, illustrated . ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her side. Like the horns of an angry bull. Her ratding shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
The children's Longfellow, illustrated . ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her side. Like the horns of an angry bull. Her ratding shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood see the form of a maiden fair. Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast. The salt tears in her eyes ;And he saw^ her hair, like the brow n sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like the reef of Normans Woe! 27. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty rnan 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 whateer 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 measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village 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,28 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chafffrom 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 daughters voice,Singing in the v
Size: 1256px × 1990px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookauthorlongfellowhenrywadswo, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900
