Good hard working Village Blacksmiths were always in demand.
I remember learning this poem in grammar school.
The Village Blacksmith...
<DL>
<DT>[SIZE=+1]U[/SIZE]NDER a spreading chestnut-tree <DD>The village smithy stands; <DD> <DT>The smith, a mighty man is he, <DD>With large and sinewy hands; <DD> <DT>And the muscles of his brawny arms <DD>Are strong as iron bands. <DD>
<DT>His hair is crisp, and black, and long, <DD>His face is like the tan; <DD> <DT>His brow is wet with honest sweat, <DD>He earns whate'er he can, <DD> <DT>And looks the whole world in the face, <DD>For he owes not any man. <DD>
<DT>Week in, week out, from morn till night, <DD>You can hear his bellows blow;<DD> <DT>You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, <DD>With measured beat and slow, <DD> <DT>Like a sexton ringing the village bell, <DD>When the evening sun is low. <DD>
<DT>And children coming home from school <DD>Look in at the open door; <DD> <DT>They love to see the flaming forge, <DD>And hear the bellows roar, <DD> <DT>And catch the burning sparks that fly <DD>Like chaff from a threshing-floor. <DD>
<DT>He goes on Sunday to the church, <DD>And sits among his boys; <DD> <DT>He hears the parson pray and preach, <DD>He hears his daughter's voice, <DT>Singing in the village choir, <DD>And it makes his heart rejoice. <DD>
<DT>It sounds to him like her mother's voice, <DD>Singing in Paradise! <DD> <DT>He needs must think of her once more, <DD>How in the grave she lies; <DT>And with his hard, rough hand he wipes <DD>A tear out of his eyes. <DD>
<DT>Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing, <DD>Onward through life he goes; <DD> <DT>Each morning sees some task begin, <DD>Each evening sees it close; <DD> <DT>Something attempted, something done, <DD>Has earned a night's repose. <DD>
<DT>Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, <DD>For the lesson thou hast taught! <DD> <DT>Thus at the flaming forge of life <DD>Our fortunes must be wrought; <DD> <DT>Thus on its sounding anvil shaped <DD>Each burning deed and thought. <DD>
<DD>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</DD></DL>
I remember learning this poem in grammar school.
The Village Blacksmith...
<DL>
<DT>[SIZE=+1]U[/SIZE]NDER a spreading chestnut-tree <DD>The village smithy stands; <DD> <DT>The smith, a mighty man is he, <DD>With large and sinewy hands; <DD> <DT>And the muscles of his brawny arms <DD>Are strong as iron bands. <DD>
<DT>His hair is crisp, and black, and long, <DD>His face is like the tan; <DD> <DT>His brow is wet with honest sweat, <DD>He earns whate'er he can, <DD> <DT>And looks the whole world in the face, <DD>For he owes not any man. <DD>
<DT>Week in, week out, from morn till night, <DD>You can hear his bellows blow;<DD> <DT>You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, <DD>With measured beat and slow, <DD> <DT>Like a sexton ringing the village bell, <DD>When the evening sun is low. <DD>
<DT>And children coming home from school <DD>Look in at the open door; <DD> <DT>They love to see the flaming forge, <DD>And hear the bellows roar, <DD> <DT>And catch the burning sparks that fly <DD>Like chaff from a threshing-floor. <DD>
<DT>He goes on Sunday to the church, <DD>And sits among his boys; <DD> <DT>He hears the parson pray and preach, <DD>He hears his daughter's voice, <DT>Singing in the village choir, <DD>And it makes his heart rejoice. <DD>
<DT>It sounds to him like her mother's voice, <DD>Singing in Paradise! <DD> <DT>He needs must think of her once more, <DD>How in the grave she lies; <DT>And with his hard, rough hand he wipes <DD>A tear out of his eyes. <DD>
<DT>Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing, <DD>Onward through life he goes; <DD> <DT>Each morning sees some task begin, <DD>Each evening sees it close; <DD> <DT>Something attempted, something done, <DD>Has earned a night's repose. <DD>
<DT>Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, <DD>For the lesson thou hast taught! <DD> <DT>Thus at the flaming forge of life <DD>Our fortunes must be wrought; <DD> <DT>Thus on its sounding anvil shaped <DD>Each burning deed and thought. <DD>
<DD>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</DD></DL>
hno: ????
