THE SMITHY OF GOD
I.
(A bold, masculine chant.)
I am Newark, forger of men,
Forger of men, forger of men—
Here at a smithy God wrought, and flung
Earthward, down to this rolling shore,
God's mighty hammer I have swung,
With crushing blows that thunder and roar,
And delicate taps, whose echoes have rung
Softly to heaven and back again;
Here I labor, forging men.
Out of my smithy's smoldering hole,
As I forge a body and mold a soul,
The jangling clangors ripplewise roll.
(A bold, masculine chant.)
I am Newark, forger of men,
Forger of men, forger of men—
Here at a smithy God wrought, and flung
Earthward, down to this rolling shore,
God's mighty hammer I have swung,
With crushing blows that thunder and roar,
And delicate taps, whose echoes have rung
Softly to heaven and back again;
Here I labor, forging men.
Out of my smithy's smoldering hole,
As I forge a body and mold a soul,
The jangling clangors ripplewise roll.
(The voice suggests the noises of the city.)
Clang, as a hundred thousand feet
Tap-tap-tap down the morning street,
And into the mills and factories pour,
Like a narrowed river's breathing roar.
Clang, as a hundred thousand feet
Tap-tap-tap down the morning street,
And into the mills and factories pour,
Like a narrowed river's breathing roar.
Clang, as two thousand whistles scream
Their seven-in-the-morning's burst of steam,
Their seven-in-the-morning's burst of steam,
31
