He lays his heavy toil aside
To take his mid-day rest;
The anvil, silent, shakes no more
His labour-pulsing breast.
The forge sleeps like a sullen thing,
With half-awakened eye,
Ready to leap, and rush, and rear
Its great red arms on high.
The hammer rests, its master's hand
Grips a more potent power,
Whose unheard beats throughout the land
Are throbbing every hour.
That moulds the iron into shape
Of all device and plan;
This moulds a subtler power than all—
The intellect of man.
All day the forges flare and flume,
Like giants in despair,
And belch from out their murky throats
Their black breath on the air.
All night the forges of the mind,
Without one single sound,
Have welded thought to thought, and flung
Their light the world around.
The chains are struck from off the slave,
And quaking tyrants feel
A mightier weapon cross their own,
And snap their blood-red steel.
Sound on, thou hammer sure and strong,
And fashion in thy toil
The wedge to split the stubborn rock,
The plough to rend the soil.
Sound on, too, hammer of the thought,
To widen human good,
And forge between each yearning heart
The links of brotherhood.