The Angelus, et Rondo Capriccioso, Op. 28, and The Village Blacksmith

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Jean-Francois Millet

"The Angelus" Jean-Francois Millet

The following link give information about Jean-Francois Millet:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Francois_Millet

the following link has over 100 of Millet's paintings. This site does include some nudity. http://www.jeanmillet.org/


This week we will continue with another work by Camille Saint-Saens the composer of Carnival of the Animals.  Today's work is called, et Rondo Capriccioso, Op. 28.  You can watch a performance of it on You-tube at the following link.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzcUQIm_gzE

If your family is new to classical music you may want to continue for another week or two with the carnival of the animals instead of introducing a new piece.  The link is listed again below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjaBGAfWGSU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YL-bBj4_8ME&feature=related 


You can find a biographical sketch of Camille Saint-Saens at the following link:  
http://www.classiccat.net/saint-saens_c/biography.php


The following is a link describing todays piece of classical music by Camille Saint-Saens.  Toward the bottom of the article to the right of the external links section you can play today's piece.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Introduction_and_Rondo_capriccioso


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man 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 whate'er 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 sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When 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,
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 wipe
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!