Calverley: The story of a legend linking a Leeds village blacksmith to a famous poem

It is a local legend which links a Leeds village with a famous poem.

It is believed that the poem 'The Village Blacksmith', composed by American Poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1840, was inspired by a smithy in Calverley.

This photo, showing blacksmith’s hard at work, is thought to have been taken in the smithy at the bottom of Blackett Street, formerly Back Lane.

The name Langfellow can be traced back to the early 16th century in Calverley, when one of three brothers, Peter Langfellow, became a vicar of Calverley in 1510.

One of the other brothers, William, perhaps provides the lineage for the poet.

One of William's descendents, another William, married Elizabeth Thorton at Calverley Church in 1646.

They resided at Horsforth where Longfellow maintained his English ancestors originated. It was possibly their son, William, who emigrated from Yorkshire to Newbury, Massachusetts in 1676, who was the last of Henry Wadworth Longfellow's English ancestors.

The poet was known to have come to England and may have visited the towns and villages associated with his ancestry.

The poem reads:

“Under a spreading chestnut-tree

⁠The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands,

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate’er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter’s voice

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought