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

      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 baked 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!