Fast in its prison-walls of earth, Awaits the mold of bakèd clay. Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth-- THE BELL that shall be born today! Who would honor obtain, With the sweat and the pain, The praise that Man gives to the Master must buy!-- But the blessing withal must descend from on high! And well an earnest word beseems The work the earnest hand prepares; Its load more light the labor deems, When sweet discourse the labor shares. So let us ponder--nor in vain-- What strength can work when labor wills; For who would not the fool disdain Who ne'er designs what he fulfils? And well it stamps our Human Race, And hence the gift To UNDERSTAND, That Man within the heart should trace Whate'er he fashions with the hand. II From the fir the faggot take, Keep it, heap it hard and dry, That the gathered flame may break Through the furnace, wroth and high. When the copper within Seethes and simmers--the tin Pour quick, that the fluid that feeds the Bell May flow in the right course glib and well. Deep hid within this nether cell, What force with Fire is molding thus In yonder airy tower shall dwell, And witness wide and far 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 Fate to Man may bring, Whatever weal or woe befall, That metal tongue shall backward ring The warning moral drawn from all. III