THE SMITHY OF GOD
The far night-noises dwindle and hush,
The city quiets its homing rush;
The stars glow forth with a silent sweep,
As hammer and hammered drowse asleep . . .
Softly I sing to heaven again,
I am Newark, forger of men,
Forger of men, forger of men.
The city quiets its homing rush;
The stars glow forth with a silent sweep,
As hammer and hammered drowse asleep . . .
Softly I sing to heaven again,
I am Newark, forger of men,
Forger of men, forger of men.
II.
(Antichorus, with restrained bitterness, and notes
of wailing and sorrow.)
You are Newark, forger of men,
Forger of men, forger of men. . . .
You take God's children, and forge a race
Unhuman, exhibiting hardly a trace
Of Him and His loveliness in their face. . . .
Counterfeiting His gold with brass,
Blanching the roses, scorching the grass,
Filling with hatred and greed the whole,—
Shriveling the body, withering the soul.
(Antichorus, with restrained bitterness, and notes
of wailing and sorrow.)
You are Newark, forger of men,
Forger of men, forger of men. . . .
You take God's children, and forge a race
Unhuman, exhibiting hardly a trace
Of Him and His loveliness in their face. . . .
Counterfeiting His gold with brass,
Blanching the roses, scorching the grass,
Filling with hatred and greed the whole,—
Shriveling the body, withering the soul.
What have you done with the lift of youth,
As they bend in the mill, and bend in the mill?
Where have you hidden beauty and truth,
As they bend in the mill?
As they bend in the mill, and bend in the mill?
Where have you hidden beauty and truth,
As they bend in the mill?
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