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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 flungEarthward, 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 rungSoftly 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 feetTap-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 screamTheir seven-in-the-morning's burst of steam,

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