Of Birmingham-its manufa&ures—iron-ore-process of it.—Panegyric upon iron. From the fame.
does the barren foil conceal alone
The crumbly rock. Ofttimes more pond'rous ore,
In ftrata close, beneath its furface lies,
Compact, metallic; but with earthy parts
Incrufted. Now another process view,
And to the furnace the flow wain attend,
Here, in huge cauldrons, the rough mass they ftow,
Till, by the potent heat, the purer ore
Is liquified, and leaves the drofs afloat.
Then, cautious, from the glowing pond they lead
The fiery ftream along the channel'd floor;
Where, in the mazy moulds of figur'd fand,
Anon it hardens, and, in ingots rude,
Is to the forge convey'd; whofe weighty ftrokes,
Inceffant aided by the rapid ftream,
Spread out the ductile ore, now tapering
In lengthened maffes, ready to obey
The workman's will, and take its deftin'd form.
Soon o'er thy furrow'd pavement, Bremicham!
Ride the loose bars obftrep'rous; to the fons
Of languid fenfe, and frame too delicate,
Harth noife perchance, but harmony to thine.
Inftant innumerable hands prepare
To fhape and mould the malleable ore.
Their heavy fides th' inflated bellows heave,
Tugg'd by the pulley'd line, and, with their blaf
Continuous, the fleeping embers rouse,
And kindle into life. Straight the rough mafs,
Plung'd in the blazing hearth, its heat contracts,
And glows tranfparent. Now, Cyclopean chief!
Quick on the anvil lay the burning bar.
And, with thy lufty fellows, on its fides.
Imprefs the weighty ftroke. See how they ftrain
The fwelling nerve, and lift the finewy
"Illi inter fefe magnâ vi brachia tollunt
“In numerum, versantque tenaci forcipe ferrum,
In measur'd time; while, with their clatt'ring blows.
From street to street the propagated found
Increafing echoes, and, on ev'ry fide,
The tortur'd metal spreads a radiant show'r.
'Tis noise and hurry all! the thronged street.
The clofe-piled warehoufe, and the busy shop!
With nimble ftroke the tinkling hammers move;
While flow and weighty the vaft fledge defcends,
In folemn base refponfive, or apart.
Or focially conjoin'd in tuneful peal.
The rough file grates; yet ufeful is its touch,
As fharp corrofives to the schirrous flesh,
Or, to the ftubborn temper, keen rebuke.
How the coarse metal brightens into fame,
Shap'd by their plaftic hands; what ornament!
What various ufe! See there the glitt'ring knife
Of temper'd edge! the fciffars' double shafts,
Ufelefs apart, in focial union join'd,
Each aiding each! Emblem how beautiful
Of happy nuptial leagues! The button round,
Plain, or imboft, or bright with fteely rays!
Or oblong buckle, on the lacker'd fhoe,
With polish'd luftre, bending elegant
Its fhapely rim. But how fhall I recount
The thronging merchandife? From gaudy figns,
The litter'd counter, and the fhew-glafs trim,
Seals, rings, 'twees, bodkins, crowd into my verse.
+ Too fcanty to contain their num'rous tribes.
Nor this alone thy praife! With fecret art,
Thy fons a compound form of various grains,
And to the fire's diffolvent pow'r commit
The precious mixture; oft, with fleepless eye,
Watching the doubtful procefs, if perchance
A purer ore may blefs their midnight toil;
Or with'd enamel clear, or fleek japan
Meet their impatient fight. Nor skilful ftroke
Is wanting of the graver's pointed steel;
Not artful pencil, o'er the polish'd plate
Swift ftealing, and with glowing tints well fraught.
Thine too, of graceful form, the letter'd type!
The friend of learning, and the poet's pride!
Without thee what avail his fplendid aims,
And midnight labours? Painful drudgery!
"Tum ferri rigor, et argutæ lamina ferræ, "Tum variæ venere artes, &c."
"Sed neque quam multæ fpecies, nec nomina quæ funt. "Eft numerus, neque enim numero comprendere refert."
And pow'rlefs effort! But that thought of thee
Imprints fresh vigour on his panting breaft,
As thou ere long fhalt on his work imprefs;
And, with immortal fame, his praife repay.
Hail, native British ore! of thee poffefs'd,
We envy not Golconda's fparkling mines,
Nor thine Potofi! nor thy kindred hills,
Teeming with gold. What? tho' in outward form
Lefs fair? not lefs thy worth. To thee we owe
More riches than Peruvian mines can yield,
Or Motezuma's crowded magazines,
And palaces could boaft, though roof'd with gold.
Splendid barbarity! and rich diftrefs!
Without the focial arts, and useful toil;
That polifh life, and civilize the mind!
Thefe are thy gifts, which gold can never buy.
Thine is the praife to cultivate the foil;
To bear its inmoft ftrata to the fun;
To break and meliorate the stiffen'd clay,
And, from its clofe confinement, fet at large
Its vegetative virtue. Thine it is
The with'ring hay, and ripen'd grain to sheer,
And waft the joyous harvest round the land.
Go now, and fee if, to the filver's edge,
The reedy ftalk will vield its bearded store,
In weighty fheafs. Or if the stubborn marle,
In fidelong rows, with eafy force will rife
Before the filver plowfhare's glitt'ring point.
Or would your gen'rous horfes tread more fafe
On plated gold? Your wheels, with eafier gait,
On golden axles move? Then grateful own,
Britannia's fons! Heav'n's providential love,
That gave you real wealth, not wealth in fhew,
Whofe price in bare imagination lies,
And artificial compact. Thankful ply
Your iron arts, and all the world is yours.
Hail, native oar! without thy pow'rful aid,
We ftill had liv'd in huts, with the green fod,
And broken branches roof'd. Thine is the plane,
The chiffel thine; which fhape the well-arch'd dome
The graceful portico, and fculptur'd walls.
Would ye your coarfe, unfightly mines exchange
For Mexiconian hills? to tread on gold,
As vulgar fand? with naked limbs, to brave
The cold, bleak air? to urge the tedious chace,
By painful hunger ftung, with artless toil,
Thro' gloomy forefts, where the founding axe,
To the fan's beam, ne'er op'd the cheerful glade,
Nor culture's healthful face was ever feen?
In fqualid hats to lay your weary limbs,
Bleeding, and faint, and ftrangers to the blifs
Of home-felt ease, which British fwains can earn,
With a bare fpade; but ill, alas! could earn,
Were it of gold? Such the poor Indian's lot!
Who ftarves 'midft gold, like mifers o'er their bags ;
Not with like guilt! Hail native British ore!
For thine is trade, that with its various ftores,
Sails round the world, and vifits ev'ry clime,
From Nova Zembla to th' Antarctic pole;
And makes the treasures of each clime her own,
By gainful commerce of her woolly vefts,
Wrought by the fpiky comb; or fteely wares,
From the coarfe mafs, by ftubborn toil, refin'd.
Such are thy peaceful gifts! and war to thee
Its beft fupport, and brightest horror owes,
The glitt'ring faulchion, and the thund'ring tube!
At whofe tremendous gleam, and volley'd fire,
Barbarian kings fly from their useless hoards,
And yield them all to thy fuperior pow'r.
PROLOGUE at the opening of the Theatre Royal in Edinburgh.
Written by James Bofwell, Efq. Spoken by Mr. Rofs.
SCOTLAND, for luftre crown'd,
COTLAND, for learning and for arms renown'd,
And ftill fhe fhares whate'er the world can yield
Of letter'd fame, or glory in the field:
In ev'ry diftant clime Great Britain knows,
The thistle fprings promifcuous with the rafe.
While in all points with other lands fhe vied,
The ftage alone to Scotland was denied:
Miftaken zeal, in times of darkness bred,
O'er the best minds its gloomy vapours spread;
Taste and religion were fuppofed at ftrife,
And 'twas a fin-to view this glass of life!
When the mufe ventur'd the ungracious task,
To play elufive with unlicens'd mask,
Mirth was reftrain'd by ftatutory awe,
And tragic greatnefs fear'd the fcourge of law,
Illuftrious heroes arrant vagrants feem'd,
And gentleft nymphs were sturdy beggars deem'd.
This night, lov'd George's free enlightened age,
Bids royal favour fhield the Scottish stage:
His royal favour ev'ry bofom cheers,
The drama now with dignity appears.
Hard is my fate if murmurings there be,
Because the favour is announc'd by me.
Anxious, alarm'd and aw'd by ev'ry frown,
May I intreat the candour of the town?
You fee me here by no unworthy art;
My all I venture-where I've fix'd my heart.
Fondly ambitious of an honeft fame,
My humble hopes your kind indulgence claim.
I wish to hold no right but by your choice;
I'll risk my PATENT on the PUBLIC VOICE,
On the much lamented Death of the Marquis of Tavistock.*
Sunt lacrymæ rerum, & mentem mortalia tangunt.
Thank Heav'n, I knew thee not-I ne'er fhall feel
The keen regret thy drooping friends fuftain;
Yet will I drop the fympathizing tear,
And his due tribute to thy memory bring;
Not that thy noble birth provokes my fong,
Or claims fuch offering from the Mufes' fhrine;
But that thy fpotlefs undiffembling heart,
Thy unaffected manners, all-unftain'd
With pride of pow'r, and infolence of wealth;
Thy probity, benevolence, and truth,
(Beft inmates of man's soul) for ever lost,
Cropt, like fair flow'rs, in life's meridian bloom,
Fade undiftinguifh'd in the filent grave.
O Bedford!-pardon, if a Mufe unknown,
Smit with thy heart-felt grief, directs her way
To forrow's dark abode, where thee fhe views,
Thee, wretched fire, and pitying hears thee mourn
Thy Ruffel's fate-Why was he thus belov'd?
"Why did he blefs my life ?"-Fond parent, ceafe;
Count not his virtues o'er-Hard task !-Call forth
Thy firm hereditary ftrength of mind.
Lo! where the fhade of thy great ancestor,
Fam'd Ruffel ftands, and chides thy vain complaint;
His philofophic foul, with patience arm'd,
And chriftian virtue brav'd the pangs of death;
Admir'd, belov'd, he dy'd; (if right I deem),
Not more lamented than thy virtuous fon :
Yet calm thy mind; fo may the lenient hand
Of Time, all-foothing Time, thy pangs affuage,
Heal thy fad wound, and clofe thy days in peace.
Occafioned by a fall from his horse.
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