From the darksome earth-mine lifted,
From the clay and from the rock
Loosen'd out with many a shock;
Slowly from the clay-dross sifted,
Molten in the fire bright-burning,
Ever purer, whiter turning--
Ho! the anvil, cool and steady,
For the soften'd rod make ready!

Blow, thou wind, upon the flame,
Raise it ever higher, hotter,
Till, like clay before the potter,
Soft become the iron frame,
Bending at the worker's will,
All his purpose to fulfil--
Ho! the fire-purged rod is ready
For the anvil, cool and steady!

At each stroke the sparks fly brightly
Upward from the glowing mass;
Hail! the stroke that makes them pass,
Fall it heavy, fall it lightly!
Now the stubborn strength bends humbly,
To the Master yielding dumbly;
From the metal, purged and glowing,
Forms of freest grace are flowing.

Wield thine hammer well, strong arm!
Strength to Beauty wedded brings
Glory out of rudest things,
Facts from mere imaginings;
Strike from steel its hidden charm!
Little reck the rocks the blow
That makes the living water flow;
Little recks man's soul the rod
That scourges it through tears to God.