Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/158

From the first piling of the earthy ore,
In its dark ovens, to its pouring forth
With brilliant scintillations, in the form
Of liquid steel; or its last lustrous face,
And finest net-work; yet I'm fain to say
The manufacturing interest would find
In me a poor interpreter. I doubt
My own capacity to comprehend
Such transmutations, and confess with shame
Their processes do strike my simple mind
Like necromancy. And I felt no joy
Among the crucibles and cutlery,
Compared to that, which on the breezy heights
Met me at every change, or mid the walks
Of the botanic garden, freshly sprang
From every flower.
                         There was a quiet lodge
From whence peered forth, as guardian of the place,
A mighty dog of true St. Bernard's breed,
With such a forehead as phrenologists
Delight to analyze, and in his port
The lamb and lion mixed; yet all unlike
That classic Cerberus, who gnashed and growled
At the Hesperides, and pleased to change
His slippery footing mid the Alpine rocks,
And midnight conflicts with the avalanche,
To doze among the birds who nestle here,
All prodigal of song.
                            But Sheffield, sure,