And there the blacksmith by his anvil stands—
Well may you mark his tall and robust form,
His forehead full, where intellect may dwell,
And eye that glances like the flying sparks
When the red bar comes dazzling from the forge.
All day his hammer works his iron will,
The reaper’s sickle and the crooked scythe
The ponderous tire that binds the wagon-wheel,
And the small rivet of the schoolboy’s toy,
Come at his bidding from the metal crude. The patient ox