LITMIR.BIZ

          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.

            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.

            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 cherished 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!

             And swift the years like arrows fly—

                No more with girls content to play,

        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 to-day!

          Bounds the proud Boy upon his way,

            Storms through loud life's tumultuous pleasures,

            With pilgrim staff the wide world measures;

            And, wearied with the wish to roam,

            Again seeks, stranger-like, the Father-Home.

            And, lo, as some sweet vision breaks

              Out from its native morning skies,

            With rosy shame on downcast cheeks,

              The Virgin stands before his eyes.

            A nameless longing seizes him!

              From all his wild companions flown;

            Tears, strange till then, his eyes bedim;

              He wanders all alone.

            Blushing, he glides where'er she move;

              Her greeting can transport him;

            To every mead to deck his love,

              The happy wild flowers court him!

            Sweet Hope—and tender Longing—ye

              The growth of Life's first Age of Gold,

            When the heart, swelling, seems to see

              The gates of heaven unfold!

        O Love, the beautiful and brief! O prime,

        Glory, and verdure, of life's summertime!

              Browning o'er, the pipes are simmering,

              Dip this wand of clay[13] within;

              If like glass the wand be glimmering,

                Then the casting may begin.

                  Brisk, brisk now, and see

                  If the fusion flow free;

          If—(happy and welcome indeed were the sign!)

          If the hard and the ductile united combine.

        For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak,

        And the stern in sweet marriage is blent with the meek,

          Rings the concord harmonious, both tender and strong:

        So

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