Classic Poem

By the Jordan stands a smithy,
And a blacksmith in his smithy
Day and night is toiling.
Up and down his bellows going,
Piff! Puff! blowing, blowing,
Rising and recoiling.

Molten fire-snakes environ
Both the anvil and the iron
Tongues of flame disgorging.
Molten fire spitting, spitting
And the hammer hitting, hitting
And the iron forging.

Hit, hit, hammer quicker,
Let the sparklets fly and flicker,
And in pools expire,
Piff! Puff! bellows blowing.
Flim! flame! sparklets flowing,
Like a rain of fire.

“Swarthy Smith, what art thou making?”—
“I am forging, I am breaking
Iron sharp and pointed—
For Messiah's steed a horse-shoe—
Hu-rah! I am forging
For the King anointed.”

By the Jordan sits a weaver,
At his loom the skillful weaver
Day and night is toiling.
On the bobbins threads of cotton,
Vick! vick!—threads of cotton
Spooling on and coiling.

Through the comb he draws the cotton,
Draws the texture skill-begotten,
And his task not leaving,
Rapidly his treadle treads he,
Rapidly his fibres threads he
Ever, ever weaving.

Sun and stars peep through his scuttle,
Fast as arrow flies his shuttle,
Not a moment slowing.
To and fro and hither-thither,
Zick! zack! hither-thither,
Ever, ever going.

“Weaver, say, what art thou making?”
“Of my choicest stock I'm taking
Cords and threads disjointed,
And a garment I am weaving—
Hu-rah! I am weaving
For the King anointed.”

By the Jordan lively, gaily,
An embroid'rer working daily
Never, never tires,
Pick! pick! stitching, taping—
Multicolored patterns shaping,
Just as he requires.

Eye to eyelet, stitch to stitches,
As by magic of the witches,
Fly his skillful fingers;
Gold and silk and silver fret-work—
Breathe with life upon his net-work—
He nor stops nor lingers.

Pick! pick fast and faster
Fly the fingers of the master,
Dexterous and steady.
Pick! pick! never dropping,
Pick! pick! never stopping,
Till the work is ready.

“What, embroid'rer, art thou fitting,
Why are thus thy fingers flitting
At their task appointed?”
“I the banner am embroid'ring—
Hu-rah! am embroid'ring
For the King anointed.”

Angels six through Heaven winging
To the Lord their praises singing,
Onward, onward pressing
At the throne of God Almighty,
Hu-rah! God Almighty,
Hu-rah! God Almighty,
Pray for heaven's blessing.

All the fairest, all the rarest,
And the nearest, and the dearest
That to man is given,
All that's pure and good and noble,
That in hours of joy or trouble
Man sends up to heaven;

Pride and truth and strength and passion,
Grace and pity and compassion,
Mercy never ending,
Faith and hope and love and beauty,
Hu-rah! love and beauty—
Mixing all and blending.

“What then, angels, are you making?”
“We are gathering and taking
Things for us appointed.
Out of these we shape the Spirit—
Hu-rah! Shape the Spirit
Of the King anointed.”

“But, alas, our earthly brothers,
Smith and weaver and all others
Have their work completed,
While our stuff is not yet blended,
Thus our work is not yet ended—
Thus our aim—defeated.

Why, we are not even near it—
The completion of the Spirit
With the stuff we're given:
Frail all human hopes and fears are,
Frail all human smiles and tears are,
When they reach to heaven.

Human kindness lasts an hour,
Powerless is human power,
Powerless is human power,
And his love—we fear it!
Woe to us, we haven't enough yet,
Woe to us, we haven't the stuff yet,
For Messiah's Spirit.

Thus at nights when winds are sighing,
One can hear the angels crying,
Angels disappointed.
“Man, sublime, is not sublime yet,
Woe to us, it is not time yet
For the King anointed!”