Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/311

 Till hard from soft, and soft from hard, he won.

The pliant clay he moulded as he would,

And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it stood

Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the mass

That from his hold, dark, obstinate, would pass,

He drew all glowing from the busy heat,

All breathing as with life that he could beat

With thundering hammer, making it obey

His will creative, like the pale soft clay.

Each day he wrought and better than he planned,

Shape breeding shape beneath his restless hand.

(The soul without still helps the soul within,

And its deft magic ends what we begin.)

Nay, in his dreams his hammer he would wield

And seem to see a myriad types revealed.

Then spring with wondering triumphant cry.

And, lest the inspiring vision should go by,

Would rush to labor with that plastic zeal

Which all the passion of our life can steal

For force to work with. Each day saw the birth

Of various forms which, flung upon the earth,

Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour,

But were as seeds instinct with hidden power.

The axe, the club, the spikéd wheel, the chain,

Held silently the shrieks and moans of pain;

And near them latent lay in share and spade,

In the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved blade,

Glad voices of the hearth and harvest-home,

The social good, and all earth's joy to come.

Thus to mixed ends wrought Tubal; and they say,

Some things he made have lasted to this day;

As, thirty silver pieces that were found

By Noah's children buried in the ground.

He made them from mere hunger of device,

Those small white disks; but they became the price