Fast, in its prison-walls of earth, Awaits the mould of bakèd clay. Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth-- THE BELL that shall be born to-day! And wearily now, With the sweat of the brow, Shall the work win its grace in the master's eye, But the blessing that hallows must come from high. And well an earnest word beseems The work the earnest hand prepares; Its load more light the labour deems, When sweet discourse the labour shares. So let us ponder--nor in vain-- What strength has wrought when labour wills; For who would not the fool disdain Who ne'er can feel what he fulfills? And well it stamps our Human Race, And hence the gift TO UNDERSTAND, When in the musing heart we trace Whate'er we fashion with the hand. From the fir the fagot take, Keep it, heap it hard and dry, That the gather'd flame may break Through the furnace, wroth and high. Smolt the copper within-- Quick--the brass with the tin, That the glutinous fluid that feeds the Bell May flow in the right course glib and well. What now these mines so deeply shroud, What Force with Fire is moulding thus, Shall from yon steeple, oft and loud, Speak, witnessing of us! It shall, in later days unfailing, Rouse many an ear to rapt emotion; Its solemn voice with Sorrow wailing, Or choral chiming to Devotion. Whatever sound in man's deep breast Fate wakens, through his winding track, Shall strike that metal-crownèd crest, Which rings the moral answer back. * * * * * See the silvery bubbles spring! Good! the mass is melting now! Let the salts we duly bring Purge the flood, and speed the flow. From the dross and the scum, Pure, the fusion must come; For perfect and pure we the metal must keep, That its voice may be perfect, and pure, and deep. That voice, with merry music rife, The cherish'd child shall welcome in; What time the rosy dreams of life, In the first slumber's arms begin. As yet in Time's dark womb unwarning, Repose the days, or foul or fair; And watchful o'er that golden morning, The Mother-Love's untiring care!