And the work of his hand! 
      Impartially out from the cloud,
        Or the curse or the blessing may fall! 
      Benignantly out from the cloud
        Come the dews, the revivers of all! 
      Avengingly our from the cloud
        Come the levin, the bolt, and the ball! 
      Hark—­a wail from the steeple!—­aloud
      The bell shrills its voice to the crowd! 
        Look—­look—­red as blood
          All on high! 
        It is not the daylight that fills with its flood
          The sky! 
        What a clamour awaking
        Roars up through the street,
        What a hell-vapour breaking
          Rolls on through the street,
        And higher and higher
        Aloft moves the Column of Fire! 
        Through the vistas and rows
        Like a whirlwind it goes,
        And the air like the steam from a furnace glows. 
      Beams are crackling—­posts are shrinking—­
      Walls are sinking—­windows clinking—­
        Children crying—­
        Mothers flying—­
    And the beast (the black ruin yet smouldering under)
    Yells the howl of its pain and its ghastly wonder! 
    Hurry and skurry—­away—­away,
    And the face of the night is as clear as day! 
        As the links in a chain,
        Again and again
      Flies the bucket from hand to hand;
        High in arches up rushing
        The engines are gushing,
    And the flood, as a beast on the prey that it hounds,
    With a roar on the breast of the element bounds. 
      To the grain and the fruits,
      Through the rafters and beams,
    Through the barns and the garners it crackles and streams! 
    As if they would rend up the earth from its roots,
      Rush the flames to the sky
      Giant-high;
    And at length,
    Wearied out and despairing, man bows to their strength! 
    With an idle gaze sees their wrath consume,
    And submits to his doom! 
        Desolate
      The place, and dread
      For storms the barren bed. 
      In the deserted gaps that casements were,
      Looks forth despair;
      And, where the roof hath been,
      Peer the pale clouds within!

      One look
        Upon the grave
        Of all that Fortune gave
      The loiterer took—­
    Then grasps his staff.  Whate’er the fire bereft,
    One blessing, sweeter than all else, is left—­
    The faces that he loves!  He counts them o’er—­
    And, see—­not one dear look is missing from that store!

* * * * *

      Now clasp’d the bell within the clay—­
        The mould the mingled metals fill—­
      Oh, may it, sparkling into day,
        Reward the labour and the skill! 
          Alas! should it fail,
          For the mould may be frail—­
    And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—­
    And, even now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!