Fast, in its prison-walls of earth,
Awaits the mould of baked clay.
 Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth
The bell that shall be born to-day!
Who would honor obtain,
With the sweat and the pain,
The praise that man gives to the master must buy.--
But the blessing withal must descend from on high!

 And well an earnest word beseems
The work the earnest hand prepares;
 Its load more light the labor deems,
When sweet discourse the labor shares.
 So let us ponder--nor in vain--
What strength can work when labor wills;
 For who would not the fool disdain
Who ne'er designs what he fulfils?
 And well it stamps our human race,
And hence the gift to understand,
 That man within the heart should trace
Whate'er he fashions with the hand.

 From the fir the fagot take,
Keep it, heap it hard and dry,
 That the gathered flame may break
Through the furnace, wroth and high.
When the copper within
Seeths and simmers--the tin,
Pour quick, that the fluid that feeds the bell
May flow in the right course glib and well.

 Deep hid within this nether cell,
What force with fire is moulding thus,
 In yonder airy tower shall dwell,
And witness wide and far 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 fate to man may bring,
Whatever weal or woe befall,
 That metal tongue shall backward ring,
The warning moral drawn from all.

 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,
That its voice may be perfect, and pure, and deep.

 That voice, with merry music rife,
The cherished child shall welcome in;
 What time the rosy dreams of life,
In the first slumber's arms begin.
 As yet, in Time's dark womb unwarning,
Repose the days, or foul or fair;
 And watchful o'er that golden morning,
The mother-love's untiring care!
 And swift the years like arrows fly
 No more with girls content to play,
 Bounds the proud boy upon his way,
 Storms through loud life's tumultuous pleasures,
 With pilgrim staff the wide world measures;
 And, wearied with the wish to roam,
 Again seeks, stranger-like, the father-home.
 And, lo, as some sweet vision breaks
Out from its native morning skies
 With rosy shame on downcast cheeks,
The virgin stands before his eyes.

 A nameless longing seizes him!
From all his wild compassions flown;
 Tears, strange till then, his eyes bedim;
He wanders all alone.
 Blushing, he glides where'er she move;
Her greeting can transport him;
 To every mead to deck his love,
The happy wild flowers court him!
 Sweet hope--and tender longing--ye
The growth of life's first age of gold;
 When the heart, swelling, seems to see
The gates of heaven unfold!
O love, the beautiful and brief! O prime,
Glory, and verdure, of life's summer time!

 Browning o'er, the pipes are simmering,
Dip this wand of clay [45] within;
 If like glass the wand be glimmering,
Then the casting may begin.
Brisk, brisk now, and see
If the fusion flow free;
If--(happy and welcome indeed were the sign!)
If the hard and the ductile united combine.
For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak,
And the stern in sweet marriage is blent with the meek,
 Rings the concord harmonious, both tender and strong
So be it with thee, if forever united,
The heart to the heart flows in one, love-delighted;
 Illusion is brief, but repentance is long.

 Lovely, thither are they bringing.
With the virgin wreath, the bride!
 To the love-feast clearly ringing,
Tolls the church-bell far and wide!
 With that sweetest holiday,
Must the May of life depart;
With the cestus loosed--away
 Flies illusion from the heart!
 Yet love lingers lonely,
When passion is mute,
 And the blossoms may only
Give way to the fruit.
 The husband must enter
The hostile life,
With struggle and strife
To plant or to watch.
To snare or to snatch,
To pray and importune,
 Must wager and venture
And hunt down his fortune!
Then flows in a current the gear and the gain,
And the garners are filled with the gold of the grain,
Now a yard to the court, now a wing to the centre!
 Within sits another,
The thrifty housewife;
 The mild one, the mother--
Her home is her life.
 In its circle she rules,
 And the daughters she schools
And she cautions the boys,
 With a bustling command,
 And a diligent hand
Employed she employs;
 Gives order to store,
 And the much makes the more;
Locks the chest and the wardrobe, with lavender smellin