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Looking for the poem


JerryCarroll

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My son just found and bought for me a print of the painting by Paul Detlefsen titled "The Smithy". It's 4 ft. wide x 2ft. high, framed and beautiful. I've been trying to find the poem about the smithy under the spreading chestnut tree that I saw mentioned in the forum or the pub some time back without any luck and I thought maybe one of our members have a better memory than I and wouldn't mind helping.

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Jerry
Fire up the search engines ...
general key words, and you get a list longer than factory length stock.
but look for a long fellow, and then thank Ron Hicks.
You saw it on IForgeIron about 8-9 months ago. Click here



The Village Blacksmith
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.

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i believe this is what u were serching for:

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 hard, 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.


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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this is another that I found interesting, it is only one small part of an entire story taken from the Kalevalla,

I know its very different than Longfellows work, but Ive made a print and built a frame for each.


Iron, Iron, hearken as I call you!
Let no false and foolish fears appall you,
Come from the crevices that hide you,
Leave the worthless stones that are beside you.
Leave the earth that lies around, above you,
And come with me for I do dearly love you

Iron stayed hidden but timidly said "I dare notleave, for my brother
Fire wishes to devour me"

The smith continued singing:

No, your brother does not wish to harm you
willingly never would he alarm you
with his glowing arms he would caress you
Make you pure and with his kisses bless you
So come with me, my smithy waits to greet you
in my forge your brother waits to greet you
waits to throw his loving arms around you
glad indeed that now he has again found you

Iron almost moved but then paused and asked what was to become of
him, why should he leave his quiet and peace

the Smith answered:
Come with me, for kindly will we treat you
on my anvil gently will I beat you
With my tongs deftly will I hold you
With my hammer I will shape and mould you
into forms so fair that all will prize you
Forms so rare that none shall ever despise you
Axes, Knives, (so men will wish to use you)
Needles, Pins, (so women too, will choose you)
Come with me you brother shall not harm you
Come with me My smithy is sure to charm you




Jared
Woodsmtih

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from Project Gutenburg

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now -
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's brow,
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare,
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains - the black mold heaves below;
And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe.
It rises, roars, rends all outright - O Vulcan, what a glow!
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright - the high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show!
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe!
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow
Sinks on the anvil - all about, the faces fiery grow:
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" bang, bang! the sledges go;
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;
And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out, and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor - a bower thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode;
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road, -
The low reef roaring on her lee; the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;
The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains;
But courage still, brave mariners - the bower yet remains!
And not an inch to flinch he deigns - save when ye pitch sky high;
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing - here am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime.
But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be -
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we!
Strike in, strike in! - the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din - our work will soon be sped;
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here
For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing seamen's cheer -
When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean- foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last;
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.
O trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea!
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? -
The hoary monster's palaces! - Methinks what joy 'twere now
To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the whales,
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn;
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn;
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn:
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles -
Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in a cove
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,
To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed fisher of the deep! whose sports can equal thine?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable- line;
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to play.
But, shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave:
A fisher's joy is to destroy - thine office is to save.
O lodger in the sea-kings' halls! couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side - or who that dripping band,
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend -
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,
Thine iron side would swell with pride - thou'dst leap within the sea!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand
To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland -
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave!
Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among!

Samuel Ferguson [1810-1886]

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  • 2 weeks later...
  • 2 months later...
My son just found and bought for me a print of the painting by Paul Detlefsen titled "The Smithy". It's 4 ft. wide x 2ft. high, framed and beautiful. I've been trying to find the poem about the smithy under the spreading chestnut tree that I saw mentioned in the forum or the pub some time back without any luck and I thought maybe one of our members have a better memory than I and wouldn't mind helping.


Wow Jerry, I have a print of the same size in an identical frame but the image is different, another blacksmith shop. This one is titled "The Villiage Smithy" and the style is very similar, likely by the same artist. I like mine very much but admittedly I think I kinda like yours better! :oDan
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  • 3 years later...
  • 4 months later...

I have the same print, "The Smithy", which is for sale: $100 plus shipping. The S&H might run into money, so it would be best to pick it up on site in Santa Fe, NM. Mine has the wooden frame with the outside measurement of 22" x 52". The print is in good condition with its paper protection and hanging wire on the back.

I also wish to submit a little prose from Samuel Yellin. It is not poetry per se, but it is poetic.

I love iron; it is the stuff of which the frame of the earth is made.
And you can make it anything you will. It eloquently responds to the hand, at the bidding
of the imagination. When I go to rest at night, I can hardly sleep because my mind is
aswarm with visions of all the gates and grilles and locks and keys I want to do. I verily
believe I shall take my hammer with me when I go, and at the gate of Heaven, if I am
denied admission, I shall fashion my own key.

escerpted from "Sketches in Iron: Samuel Yellin" by Myra Tolmach Davis, The Dimock Gallery, 1971.

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