BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD.
'T is something to be called
The "toyshop of a continent," by one
Whose voice was fame. And yet a name like this
Hath not been lightly earned. Hard hammerings
And fierce ore-meltings, mid a heat that threats
To vitrify the stones, have wrought it out,
On the world's anvil.
Ponderous enginery,
And sparkling smithies, and a pallid throng,
Who toil, and drink, and die, do service here,
And countless are the forms, their force creates,
From the dire weapon sworn to deeds of blood,
That sweeps with sharp report man's life away,
To the slight box, from whence the spinster takes
Her creature-comfort, or the slighter orb
Of treble-gilt, which the pleased school-boy finds
On his new suit, counting the shining rows
With latent vanity.
Well pleased I marked
This strange creativeness, because I knew
That Birmingham had stretched an iron hand
