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.