The Roman bent his iron will to forge
Deep furnaces; slow epochs riveted
With hope the secret chambers: till at last
We, you and I, this living age of ours,
A new-winged Mercury, out of the skies
Filch the wild spirit of light, and chain him there
To do her will forever.
Look, my friend,
Here is a sign! What is this crystal sphere—
This little bulb of glass I lightly lift,