He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleeves
And the well-charred leathern apron show'd his craft);
Karl was his name--a man beloved by all.
He was not of the district. He had come
Amongst them ere his forehead bore one trace
Of age or suffering. A wife and child
He had brought with him; but the wife was dead.
Not so the child--who danced before him now
And held a tiny brother by the hand--
Their mother's last and priceless legacy!
So Karl was happy still that those two lived,
And laughed and danced before him in the sun.
Yet sadly so. The children both were fair,
Ruddy, and active, though of fragile form;
But to that father's ever watchful eye,
Who had so loved their mother, it was plain
That each inherited the wasting doom
Which cost that mother's life. 'Twas reason more
To work and toil for them by night and day!
Early and late his anvil's ringing sound
Was heard amidst all seasons. Oftentimes
The neighbours asked him why he worked so hard
With only two to care for? He would smile,
Wipe his hot brow, and say, "'Twas done in love
For sake of those in mercy left him still--
And hers: he might not stay.
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