Here, in huge cauldrons, the rough mass they stow,
Till, by the potent heat, the purer ore
Is liquefied, and leaves the dross afloat.
Then, cautious, from the glowing pond they lead
The fiery stream along the channelled floor;
Where, in the mazy moulds of figured sand,
Anon it hardens and, in ingots rude,
Is to the forge conveyed; whose weighty strokes,
Incessant aided by the rapid stream,
Spread out the ductile ore, now tapering
In lengthened masses, ready to obey
The workman's will, and take its destined form.
Soon o'er thy furrowed pavement, Bremicham!
Ride the loose bars obstrep'rous; to the sons
Of languid sense and frame too delicate,
Harsh noise perchance, but harmony to thine.
Instant innumerable hands prepare
To shape and mould the malleable ore.
Their heavy sides th' inflated bellows heave,
Tugged by the pulleyed line, and, with their blast
Continuous, the sleeping embers rouse
And kindle into life. Straight the rough mass,
Plunged in the blazing hearth, its heat contracts,
And glows transparent. Now, Cyclopean chief!
Quick on the anvil lay the burning bar,
And, with thy lusty fellows, on its sides
Impress the weighty stroke. See, how they strain
The swelling nerve, and lift the sinewy arm
In measured time; while, with their clatt'ring blows,
From street to street the propagated sound
Increasing echoes, and, on ev'ry side,
The tortured metal spreads a radiant show'r.
'Tis noise and hurry all! The throngèd street,
The close-piled warehouse, and the busy shop!
With nimble stroke the tinkling hammers move;
While slow and weighty the vast sledge descends,
In solemn bass responsive, or apart,
Or socially conjoined in tuneful peal.
The rough file grates; yet useful is its touch,
As sharp corrosives to the scirrhous flesh,
Or, to the stubborn temper, keen rebuke.
How the coarse metal brightens into fame,
Shaped by their plastic hands! what ornament!
What various use! See there the glitt'ring knife
Of tempered edge! The scissors' double shaft,
Useless apart, in social union joined,
Each aiding each! Emblem how beautiful
Of happy nuptial leagues! The button round,
Plain, or embossed, or bright with steely rays!
Or oblong buckle, on the laquered shoe,
With polished lustre, bending elegant
Its shapely rim. But how shall I recount
The thronging merchandise? From gaudy signs,
The littered counter, and the show-glass trim,
Seals, rings, twees, bodkins, crowd into my verse,
Too scanty to contain their num'rous tribes.
Nor this alone thy praise! With secret art,
Thy sons a compound form of various grains,
And to the fire's dissolvent pow'r commit
The precious mixture; oft, with sleepless eye,
Watching the doubtful process, if perchance
A purer ore may bless their midnight toil;
Or wished enamel clear, or sleek japan
Meet their impatient sight. Nor skilful stroke
Is wanting of the graver's pointed steel;
Nor artful pencil, o'er the polished plate
Swift stealing, and with glowing tints well-fraught.
Thine too, of graceful form, the lettered type!
The friend of learning, and the poet's pride!
Without thee what avail his splendid aims,
And midnight labours? Painful drudgery!
And pow'rless effort! But that thought of thee
Imprints fresh vigour on his panting breast,
As thou ere long shalt on his work impress;
And, with immortal fame, his praise repay.
Till, by the potent heat, the purer ore
Is liquefied, and leaves the dross afloat.
Then, cautious, from the glowing pond they lead
The fiery stream along the channelled floor;
Where, in the mazy moulds of figured sand,
Anon it hardens and, in ingots rude,
Is to the forge conveyed; whose weighty strokes,
Incessant aided by the rapid stream,
Spread out the ductile ore, now tapering
In lengthened masses, ready to obey
The workman's will, and take its destined form.
Soon o'er thy furrowed pavement, Bremicham!
Ride the loose bars obstrep'rous; to the sons
Of languid sense and frame too delicate,
Harsh noise perchance, but harmony to thine.
Instant innumerable hands prepare
To shape and mould the malleable ore.
Their heavy sides th' inflated bellows heave,
Tugged by the pulleyed line, and, with their blast
Continuous, the sleeping embers rouse
And kindle into life. Straight the rough mass,
Plunged in the blazing hearth, its heat contracts,
And glows transparent. Now, Cyclopean chief!
Quick on the anvil lay the burning bar,
And, with thy lusty fellows, on its sides
Impress the weighty stroke. See, how they strain
The swelling nerve, and lift the sinewy arm
In measured time; while, with their clatt'ring blows,
From street to street the propagated sound
Increasing echoes, and, on ev'ry side,
The tortured metal spreads a radiant show'r.
'Tis noise and hurry all! The throngèd street,
The close-piled warehouse, and the busy shop!
With nimble stroke the tinkling hammers move;
While slow and weighty the vast sledge descends,
In solemn bass responsive, or apart,
Or socially conjoined in tuneful peal.
The rough file grates; yet useful is its touch,
As sharp corrosives to the scirrhous flesh,
Or, to the stubborn temper, keen rebuke.
How the coarse metal brightens into fame,
Shaped by their plastic hands! what ornament!
What various use! See there the glitt'ring knife
Of tempered edge! The scissors' double shaft,
Useless apart, in social union joined,
Each aiding each! Emblem how beautiful
Of happy nuptial leagues! The button round,
Plain, or embossed, or bright with steely rays!
Or oblong buckle, on the laquered shoe,
With polished lustre, bending elegant
Its shapely rim. But how shall I recount
The thronging merchandise? From gaudy signs,
The littered counter, and the show-glass trim,
Seals, rings, twees, bodkins, crowd into my verse,
Too scanty to contain their num'rous tribes.
Nor this alone thy praise! With secret art,
Thy sons a compound form of various grains,
And to the fire's dissolvent pow'r commit
The precious mixture; oft, with sleepless eye,
Watching the doubtful process, if perchance
A purer ore may bless their midnight toil;
Or wished enamel clear, or sleek japan
Meet their impatient sight. Nor skilful stroke
Is wanting of the graver's pointed steel;
Nor artful pencil, o'er the polished plate
Swift stealing, and with glowing tints well-fraught.
Thine too, of graceful form, the lettered type!
The friend of learning, and the poet's pride!
Without thee what avail his splendid aims,
And midnight labours? Painful drudgery!
And pow'rless effort! But that thought of thee
Imprints fresh vigour on his panting breast,
As thou ere long shalt on his work impress;
And, with immortal fame, his praise repay.