The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of glancing light:
But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,
And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;
How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,
And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!
It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,
On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;
It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old dozing gray,
And a blush is fixed on Matson’s face in the broad and steady ray;
One moment more, and the iron is whirl’d with fierce and spattering glow,