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,