Rush the flames to the sky
Giant-high;
And at length,
Wearied out and despairing, man bows to their strength!
With an idle gaze sees their wrath consume,
And submits to his doom!
Desolate
The place, and dread
For storms the barren bed.
In the deserted gaps that casements were,
Looks forth despair;
And, where the roof hath been,
Peer the pale clouds within!

One look
Upon the grave
Of all that Fortune gave
The loiterer took--
Then grasps his staff. Whate'er the fire bereft,
One blessing, sweeter than all else, is left--
_The faces that he loves_! He counts them o'er--
And, see--not one dear look is missing from _that_ store!

* * * * *

Now clasp'd the bell within the clay--
The mould the mingled metals fill--
Oh, may it, sparkling into day,
Reward the labour and the skill!
Alas! should it fail,