Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/101

 Crown'd with full baskets, in the field-way paths Come tripping on ; the echoing hills repeat The stroke of axe and hammer ; scaffolds rise, And growing edifices ; heaps of stone, Beneath the chisel, beauteous shapes assume Of frieze and column. Some, with even line, New streets are marking in the neighb'ring fields, And sacred domes of worship. Industry, Which dignifies the artist, lifts the swain, And the straw cottage to a palace turns, Over the work presides. Such was the scene Of hurrying Carthage, when the Trojan chief First view'd her growing turrets : so appear Th' increasing walls of busy Manchester, Sheffield, and Birmingham, whose reddening fields Rise and enlarge their suburbs. Lo ! in throngs, For every realm, the careful factors meet, Whispering each other. In long ranks the bales, Like War's bright files, beyond the sight extend. Straight, ere the sounding bell the signal strikes, Which ends the hour of traffic, they conclude The speedy compact ; and, well-pleas'd transfer, With mutual benefit, superior wealth To many a kingdom's rent, or tyrant's hoard. Whate'er is excellent in art proceeds From labour and endurance. Deep the oak Must sink in stubborn earth its roots obscure, That hopes to lift its branches to the skies. Gold cannot gold appear until man's toil Discloses wide the mountain's hidden ribs, And digs the dusky ore, and breaks and grinds Its gritty parts, and laves in limpid streams With oft-repeated toil, and oft in fire The metal purifies : with the fatigue And tedious process of its painful works