Thy soul, as lib'ral as the breath of spring,
Cheers his faint heart, and plumes his flagging wing.
'Tis thine, with plastic hand, to mould the mass,
Of ductile silver, and resplendant brass;
'Tis thine, with sooty finger to produce
Unnumber'd forms, for ornament and use.
Hark! what a sound!--art's pond'rous fabric reels,
Beneath machinery's ten thousand wheels;
Loud falls the stamp, the whirling lathes resound,
And engines heave, while hammers clatter round: