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For this it is that Man doth grace,
Hereto he hath power to understand,
That he, in his heart's core, may trace
The type of his creative hand.

Take ye wood of the pine-stem,
But be sure that 'tis right dry,
That the inward pent-up flame
Through the furnace throat may fly.
Melt the copper down!
Quick! the tin bring on!
That the tough Bellmetal so

Properly may fuse and flow.

What now with fire's assisting power
In this deep pit we fashion thus,
Loud from the belfry's lofty tower
Shall one day testify of us;
And many a man shall hear its tone,
For it shall last in after-time,
And shall with the afflicted moan,
And with devotion's chorus chime.
Whatever to earth’s lowly son
Aye-changing destiny may bring,
Shall strike on its metallic crown,
And edifying thence shall ring.

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Lo! I see white bubbles spring!
Good ! the mass is fused at last.
Let us in the pot-ash fling,
That will quickly aid the cast.
From scum all pure and free
Must the mixture be;
That from metal clean and round
Clear and full the voice may sound.

For with its joyous festal tone
The dear-lov'd infant it doth greet,
Life's path when first it enters on,
Lapp'd in the arms of slumber sweet;
The lot, or dark, or bright, of whom
As yet rests hidden in time's womb.
Maternal love with tender yearning
Is watching o'er his golden morning-

The years fly on as arrows fleet.

From the girl the proud boy rushes forth;
He wildly storms into life's danger;
On wanderer's staff roams o'er the earth:–
To his father's home returns, a stranger.
And glorious in the pride of youth,

Even as a form from heaven's height,

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