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 as 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 dawn till night,you can hear his bellows blow;you can hear him swing his heavy sledge,with measured beat and blow,like a sexton ringing the village bell,when the evening sun is low. and chidren 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. e goes on sunday to the church,and sits among his boys,he hears the parson pray and preach,he hears his daughters voice,singing in the village choir,it makes his heart rejoice. it sounds to him like her mothers 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 wipe a tear out of his eyes. toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,onword through life he goes,each morning sees some task begin,each evening sees it close;something attempted,something done,he earned a nights 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!