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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 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 begun,
Each evening sees its 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.
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