a circle of crackling fire,
Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man's welded tire!
While o'er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it
when cherry-red,
To the tilted wheel of the huge grim'd ark in the back-ground
of the shed.

There's a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,
And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;
In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!
The bands have been placed around him--he struggles to be free:
But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm'd,
Then loosen'd Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he's unharm'd.

Joe Matson's horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he's seen,
An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;
Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,
There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;
The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,
With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.

I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,
The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of
glancing light:
But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,
And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;
How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,
And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!

It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,
On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;
It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old
dozing gray,
And a blush is fixed on Matson's face in the broad and steady ray;
One moment more, and the iron is whirl'd with fierce and spattering glow,
And swank! swank! swank! rings the sledge's smite, tink! tink! the
hammer's blow.

'Whoa, Dobbin!' says Tim, as he pares the hoof, 'whoa! whoa!' as he
fits the shoe,
And the click of the driving nails is heard, till the humble toil
is through;
Pleas'd Matson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beat
Of the trotting hoofs, up the corner road, till the sounds in the
distance fleet:
And I depart with grateful joy to the King of earth and heaven,
That e'en to life in its lowliest phase, such interest should be given