 | Poems |  |
86
THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP.
Beside the road in Harley town
There stands an ancient Blacksmith's Shop,
Whose walls and roofs are dark and low,
With chimneys peeping o'er the top;
Some two or three on either side,
But only one with fire supplied,
Which puffs its smoky volumes high,
In dusky wreaths along the sky.
There stands an ancient Blacksmith's Shop,
Whose walls and roofs are dark and low,
With chimneys peeping o'er the top;
Some two or three on either side,
But only one with fire supplied,
Which puffs its smoky volumes high,
In dusky wreaths along the sky.
Harrows, and wains with splintered shafts,
And broken wheels, are standing round;
And molten coals and cinders lie
In scattered heaps along the ground;
And in the yard, beside the door,
You see the square old tireing-floor,
With grass, and weeds, and waving sedge
Bent down around its blackened edge.
And broken wheels, are standing round;
And molten coals and cinders lie
In scattered heaps along the ground;
And in the yard, beside the door,
You see the square old tireing-floor,
With grass, and weeds, and waving sedge
Bent down around its blackened edge.
87
Fronting the door the anvil stands,
With burnished surface broad and clear;
The rusty pinchers dropped in haste,
And heavy sledge, are lying near;
While hammers, tongs, and chisels cold,
And crooked nails, and horseshoes old,
With all the tools renowned of yore
In blacksmith ditties, strew the floor.
With burnished surface broad and clear;
The rusty pinchers dropped in haste,
And heavy sledge, are lying near;
While hammers, tongs, and chisels cold,
And crooked nails, and horseshoes old,
With all the tools renowned of yore
In blacksmith ditties, strew the floor.
Beneath the window stands a row
Of dusty benches rough and rude;
And bars and files are thrown thereon,
And vices on the edge are screwed;
And see!—the last year's almanac,
With songs and ballads torn and black,
And battle prints by sea and land,
That line the walls on every hand.
Of dusty benches rough and rude;
And bars and files are thrown thereon,
And vices on the edge are screwed;
And see!—the last year's almanac,
With songs and ballads torn and black,
And battle prints by sea and land,
That line the walls on every hand.
The forge is in a little nook,
Before the chimney slant and wide;
And, in a leather apron clad,
You see the helper by its side:
Nodding his head and paper crown,
He moves the handle up and down,
Beneath his arm, with motion slow,
And makes the rattling bellows blow.
Before the chimney slant and wide;
And, in a leather apron clad,
You see the helper by its side:
Nodding his head and paper crown,
He moves the handle up and down,
Beneath his arm, with motion slow,
And makes the rattling bellows blow.
88
Hard by, the blacksmith folds his arms,
And swells their knotted sinews strong;
Or turns his iron in the fire,
And rakes the coals, and hums a song:
But when his heat throws out its light,
He hurries to the anvil bright,
And sledges fall with deafening sound,
And sparks are flying thick around.
And swells their knotted sinews strong;
Or turns his iron in the fire,
And rakes the coals, and hums a song:
But when his heat throws out its light,
He hurries to the anvil bright,
And sledges fall with deafening sound,
And sparks are flying thick around.
The village idlers lounge about,
And talk the country gossip o'er;
And now and then a farmer's man
Drives up on horseback to the door:
And reapers come from pastures near,
And Ned the ploughman with his steer,
And passing teamsters broken down,
O'erloaded for the neighboring town.
And talk the country gossip o'er;
And now and then a farmer's man
Drives up on horseback to the door:
And reapers come from pastures near,
And Ned the ploughman with his steer,
And passing teamsters broken down,
O'erloaded for the neighboring town.
From morning's break to evening's close,
In early spring and autumn time,
The dusky blacksmith plies his craft,
And makes his heavy anvil chime;
And oft he works at dead of night,
Like some deep thinker, strong and bright,
That shapes his stern, laborious lore
In iron thoughts, for evermore!
In early spring and autumn time,
The dusky blacksmith plies his craft,
And makes his heavy anvil chime;
And oft he works at dead of night,
Like some deep thinker, strong and bright,
That shapes his stern, laborious lore
In iron thoughts, for evermore!
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