Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms. Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone. So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway. Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor. how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!Ah! Anon the bell from the belfry, Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway. A contemporary envisioning of a nineteenth-century poem pairs artwork by G. Brian Karas with the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow classic.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.The neighborhood blacksmith is a quiet and unassuming presence, tucked in his smithy under the chestnut tree. All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches. As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning. Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin. Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. All sounds were in harmony blended. Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens. Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead. I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing. Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. Built are the house and the barn. he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spiritCould no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent himUnto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morningWe will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.". Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach. It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters. Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith. Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle. O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy! Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing. Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden; And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them. Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields, Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward, Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains, Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic, Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. them Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic. Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows. Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard. But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. and died away into silence. Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended. As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar! We can always make our lives happy; we can always make ourselves stronger! High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines. with a summons sonorousSounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.Thronged erelong was the church with men. The initial paragraph of the poem is the description of the physical appearance of the blacksmith and his workplace. Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming. Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places, Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;. Class 12 Class 11 Class 10 Class 9 Class 8 Class 7 Class 6 Class 5 Class 4 Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives. Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor. Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs. Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight. Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. "Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. Exile without an end, and without an example in story. Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another. Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. We must not grudge, then, to othersEver the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table., Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid;And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer:Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London,When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly,Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission?No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh,Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle,Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong windBends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle.Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me,Wherefore I do not know; but strong is the feeling within meThat once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten., Een as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells,First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance,Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard,Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners.Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together,And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid,It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him?, Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lanternPierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse,And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway,Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadowOver the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses,And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic.Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger.Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air;And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him,As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence,And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected,Quietly gave him her hand, and said, Thou art welcome, John Estaugh.And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior,Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver, Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress, Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air. Not as crucified and slain,Not in agonies of pain,Not with bleeding hands and feet,Did the Monk his Master see;But as in the village street,In the house or harvest-field,Halt and lame and blind he healed,When he walked in Galilee. On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pr,Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him, directing his household,Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontideFlagons of home-brewed ale, ah! "Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill soundedLike a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence."Patience!" And there in haste by the sea-side,Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pr.And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,Lo! Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive. Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,So is it best, John Estaugh. 'Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them! Which word in stanza 2 means the same as forehead? The blacksmith serves as a role model who balances his job with the role he plays with his family and community. Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow. Softly the evening came. with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation. shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest! is Gabriel gone?" " The Village Blacksmith " is a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, first published in 1840. A simile is a figure of speech in which two fundamentally unlike things are explicitly compared, usually in a phrase introduced by like or as . '"Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peopleSank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!". Stanza 2 The blossoms of passion,Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafterCrown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe.". Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her. Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches; But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains. The Village Blacksmith Analysis by Henry Longfellow Context: This poem is written by Henry Longfellow, an American poet, who was a famous figure in America during the 19 th century. Behind them followed the watch-dog,Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,Echoed back by the barns. "The Village Blacksmith" has been learned by thousands of children, and there is no criticism to be put upon it. Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him. And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly. It was the month of May. But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake notBut, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light."Benedicite!" Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver. Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder. Suddenly, as if it lightened,An unwonted splendor brightened Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one! Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudderRan through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;But, as he lay in the in morning light, his face for a momentSeemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhaustedSeemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeededWhispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,"Gabriel! what madness has seized you? By the time of 1850s he gained fame, and his poems became famous worldwide. 9: A Tale Involving a Tree! 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. But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:. Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps. But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning, Over her horses neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh. Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence. Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession. Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 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