The unconscious bullet to the furnace bear;—
Or gaily tittering, tip the match with fire,
Prime the big mortar, bid the shell aspire;
Applaud, with tiny hands, and laughing eyes,
And watch the bright destruction as it flies.
Now the fierce forges gleam with angry glare—
The windmill[[250]] waves his woven wings in air;
Swells the proud sail, the exulting streamers fly,
Their nimble fins unnumber’d paddles ply:
Ye soft airs breathe, ye gentle billows waft,