Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 329, March, 1843. Various

      Fast, in its prison-walls of earth,

      Awaits the mould of bakèd clay.

      Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth—

      THE BELL that shall be born to-day!

      And wearily now,

      With the sweat of the brow,

      Shall the work win its grace in the master's eye,

      But the blessing that hallows must come from high.

      And well an earnest word beseems

      The work the earnest hand prepares;

      Its load more light the labour deems,

      When sweet discourse the labour shares.

      So let us ponder—nor in vain—

      What strength has wrought when labour wills;

      For who would not the fool disdain

      Who ne'er can feel what he fulfills?

      And well it stamps our Human Race,

      And hence the gift TO UNDERSTAND,

      When in the musing heart we trace

      Whate'er we fashion with the hand.

      From the fir the fagot take,

      Keep it, heap it hard and dry,

      That the gather'd flame may break

      Through the furnace, wroth and high.

      Smolt the copper within—

      Quick—the brass with the tin,

      That the glutinous fluid that feeds the Bell

      May flow in the right course glib and well.

      What now these mines so deeply shroud,

      What Force with Fire is moulding thus,

      Shall from yon steeple, oft and loud,

      Speak, witnessing 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 sound in man's deep breast

      Fate wakens, through his winding track,

      Shall strike that metal-crownèd crest,

      Which rings the moral answer back.

      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 cherish'd 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,

      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 summer time!

      Browning o'er the pipes are simmering,

      Dip this fairy rod within;

      If like glass the surface glimmering,

      Then the casting may begin.

      Brisk, brisk to the rest—

      Quick!—the fusion to test;

      And welcome, my merry men, welcome the sign,

      If the ductile and brittle 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 be it with thee, if for ever united,

      The heart to the heart flows in one, love-delighted;

      Illusion is brief, but Repentance is long.

      Lovely, thither are they bringing,

      With her virgin wreath, the Bride!

      To the love-feast clearly ringing,

      Tolls the church-bell far and wide!

      With that sweetest holyday,

      Must the May of Life depart;

      With the cestus loosed—away

      Flies ILLUSION from the heart!

      Yet Love lingers lonely,

      When Passion is mute,

      And