THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Undera spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre 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 nightYou can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledgeWith measured beat, and slow;Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike 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 voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like his mother’s voiceSinging in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA 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 lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.
Undera spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre 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 nightYou can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledgeWith measured beat, and slow;Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike 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 voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like his mother’s voiceSinging in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA 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 lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.
Undera spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.
Undera 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.
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 nightYou can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledgeWith measured beat, and slow;Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening sun is low.
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 schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.
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 voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.
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 his mother’s voiceSinging in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.
It sounds to him like his 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.
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 lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.
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.
Longfellow.