I WAS born deep down—deep down in the sable depths of the mine, (Thus commenced the iron,) Where I lay in dull and sullen sleep, Till the miner, gaunt, naked and strong, With his sharp pickaxe, And by the light of his flaring torch, Torch of flary and smoky crimson! That lit up the gloom like a star, Forced me from my dull and sullen sleep. And whistling like the keen northwest over a peak of the Ural mountains, (oh mountains, stern mountains of snow.) Lifted me, dull and sullen as I was, to the dazzling eye of the sun-god, I hated the miner, that miner, gaunt, naked and strong, With his flaring and crimson torch, And his sharp pickaxe, I hated him, and I wished I was a weapon to bite into his heart— Ho! ho! ho! how I would have laughed, as I bit into his heart, That miner, gaunt, naked and strong, For lifting me from my dull and sullen sleep Into the presence of so radiant a being as the golden-tressed, beautiful sun-god. For I was black, from my dull and sullen sleep, And the dross of long years, of long years that I spent in the mine, clung about me like barnacles to a ship. So I was glad when I was hurried to the forge; But, oh, how I writhed and bent in my anguish as the red hot furnace! Yea, the furnace “heated to a white heat,” Made my heart melt within me, and my whole body change to a mass of living flame— That fierce and merciless forge. Oh how my heart melted within me, and how my whole body changed to a mass of living flame, That softened each agonized pore, and made me turn liquid with sorrow. I was taken then from the forge, And beaten into a long, slender wand, like a spear, And I thought I was changing to a spear, And laughed, for then I could bite into heart Of that miner, That miner, gaunt, naked and strong, That took me from my dull and sullen sleep, And hurried me, all black, and covered with dross like the barnacles on a ship, Into the golden presence of him the bright, beautiful sun-god. But I was not destined to bite into the heart of that miner: And I was hurried then to the smithy, Where stood the stalwort blacksmith leaning on his sledge: That blacksmith, with his leathern apron and arm that would fell a buffalo. And he smiled, that blacksmith, When he placed me in _his_ forge, and wakened his monstrous bellows. And I—I knew that my foe the red fire would leap again into my entrails, And melt my heart; And I tried to yell out my wrath, but could not— And so I lay dark and sullen, yea, dark and sullen as when I slept deep down in the sable mine, Until I felt my foe the red fire again melting my heart, And again softening my strong, well-knit muscles Into a mass of living flame— Ah then that sharp anvil!