Classic Poem

His schoolroom in the little village inn
Was o'er the anvil and the smithy-fire;
His mother's teaching mingled with the din
Of the great hammer thundered by his sire.

Upon the glowing iron; and his mind,—
Forged o'er the clanging stithy and the flame,
And blazing in the roaring bellows-wind,—
Itself a hammer and a forge became.

And now, as on a forge, his plans are wrought;
His bolts are fiercely hammered, blow on blow;
His very words are beaten red and hot;
His thoughts like iron on an anvil glow.

His hammer thunders on the gleaming share,
His hammer thunders on the glittering sword,
He stands irradiant in the furnace-glare,
A mighty master-workman of the Lord.