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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 it 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 haul, rough hand he wipes
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
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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Comments
I am 25. I learnt this poem in school to a tune. We sang it often from Kindy through to High school. It is one of the earliest things I remember learning at school. When we used to sing it in class it would bring a tear to my eye, even as a child. So well written, and so many beautiful images. I have just bought two prints that must be from an old illustrated book of Longfellow's poems. One is an image of a cottage with a big tree out the front and reads 'Under a spreading chest-nut tree/ The Village Smithy stands'. The other is of the blacksmith raising his mallet and reads 'His hair is crisp and black and long/ His face is like the tan'. They remind me of the best parts of my childhood and I know I'll never forget this poem, on which I have bestowed so many fond feelings.
Jessa from Australia