| |
| 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 | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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; | 20 |
| They love to see the flaming forge, | |
| And hear the bellows roar, | |
| And catch the burning sparks that fly | |
| Like chaff from the threshing-floor. | |
| |
| He goes on Sunday to the church, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| Our fortunes must be wrought; | |
| Thus on its sounding anvil shaped | |
| Each burning deed and thought! | |
| |
