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 wipes
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.
From Longfellow's Ballads and Other Poems.
