Ebenezer Elliott
Steam at Sheffield
from The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott, A New and Revised Edition in Two Volumes, ed. by Rev. Edwin Elliott
TO CHARLES HINDLEY, Esq., M. P., one of our creators of national wealth – who, while they enrich themselves, silently reproach the splendid drones of society, by increasing the productive capital of the state – I inscribe this humble poem, wishing it were worthier.
1 | ||
Well, gaze thou on the hills, and hedge-side flowers! | ||
But blind old Andrew will with me repair | ||
To yonder massive pile, where useful powers, | ||
Toiling unconsciously, aloud declare | ||
5 | That man, too, and his works, are grand and fair. | |
Son of the far-famed self-taught engineer, | ||
Whose deeds were marvels in the bygone days! | ||
Ill it becomes thee, with ungrateful sneer, | ||
The trade-fed town and townsmen to dispraise. | ||
10 | Why rail at Traffic's wheels, and crowded ways? | |
Trade makes thee rich; then, William, murmur not | ||
Through Trade's black vapours ever round thee rise. | ||
Trade makes thee sage; lo! thou read'st Locke and Scott! | ||
While the poor rustic, beast-like, lives and dies, | ||
15 | Blind to the page of priceless mysteries! | |
Fair is the bow that spans the shower, thou say'st, | ||
But all unlovely, as an eyeless skull, | ||
Is man's black workshop in the streeted waste. | ||
And can the city's smoke be worse than dull, | ||
20 | If Martin found it more than beautiful? | |
Did he, did Martin steal immortal hues | ||
From London's cloud, or Carron's gloomy glare - | ||
Light-darken'd shadows, such as Milton's muse | ||
Cast o'er th'Eternal - and shalt thou despair | ||
25 | To find, where man is found, the grand and fair? | |
Can'st thou love Nature, and not love the sound | ||
Of cheerful labour? He who loathes the crew | ||
To whose hard hands the toiling oar is bound, | ||
Is dark spirit, bilious as his hue, | ||
30 | And bread-tax dyed in Tory lust's true blue. | |
Thou lov'st the woods, the rocks, the quiet fields! | ||
But tell me, if thou can'st, enthusiast wan! | ||
Why the broad town to thee no gladness yields? | ||
If thou lov'st Nature sympathize with man; | ||
35 | For he and his are parts of Nature's plan. | |
But can'st thou love her if she love not thee? | ||
She will be wholly loved, or not at all. | ||
Thou lov'st her streams, her flowers; thou lov'st to see | ||
The gorgeous halcyon strike the bulrush tall | ||
40 | Thou lov'st to feel the veil of evening fall, | |
Like gentlest slumber, on a happy bride; | ||
For these are Nature's! Art thou not hers too? | ||
A portion of her pageantry and pride; | ||
In all thy passions, all thou seek'st to do, | ||
45 | And all thou dost? The earth-worm is allied | |
To God, and will not have her claims denied, | ||
Though thou disown her fellow worm, and scorn | ||
The lowly beauty of his toil and care. | ||
Sweet is the whisper of the breezy morn | ||
50 | To waking streams. And hath the useful share | |
No splendour? Doth the tiller's cottage wear | ||
No smiles for thee? How beauteous are the dyes | ||
That grove and hedgerow from their plumage shake! | ||
And cannot the loud hammer, which supplies | ||
55 | Food for the blacksmith's rosy children, make | |
Sweet music to thy heart? Behold the snake | ||
Couch'd on its bed of beams. The scaly worm | ||
Is lovely, coil'd above the river's flow; | ||
But there is nobler beauty in that form | ||
60 | That welds the hissing steel, with ponderous blow; | |
Yea, there is majesty on that calm brow, | ||
And in those eyes the light of thoughts divine! | ||
2 | ||
Come, blind old Andrew Turner! link in mine | ||
Thy time-tried arm, and cross the town with me; | ||
For there are wonders mightier far than thine; | ||
Watt! and his million-feeding enginery! | ||
5 | Steam-miracles of demi-deity! | |
Thou can'st not see, unnumber'd chimneys o'er, | ||
From chimneys tall the smoky cloud aspire; | ||
But thou can'st hear the unwearied crash and roar | ||
Of iron powers, that, urged by restless fire, | ||
10 | Toil ceaseless, day and night, yet never tire, | |
Or say to greedy man, Thou dost amiss. | ||
3 | ||
Oh, there is glorious harmony in this | ||
Tempestuous music of the giant, Steam, | ||
Commingling growl, and roar, and stamp, and hiss, | ||
With flame and darkness! Like a Cyclop's dream, | ||
5 | It stuns our wondering souls, that start and scream | |
With joy and terror; while, gold on snow | ||
Is morning's beam on Andrew's hoary hair! | ||
Like gold on pearl is morning on his brow! | ||
His hat is in his hand, his head is bare; | ||
10 | And, rolling wide his sightless eyes, he stands | |
Before this metal god, that yet shall chase | ||
The tyrant idols of remotest lands, | ||
Preach science to the desert, and efface | ||
The barren curse from every pathless place | ||
15 | Where virtues have not yet atoned for crimes. | |
He loves the thundery of machinery! | ||
It is beneficent thunder, though, at times, | ||
Like heaven's red bolt, it lightens fatally. | ||
Poor blind old man! what would he give to see | ||
20 | This bloodless Waterloo! this hell of wheels; | |
This dreadful speed, that seems to sleep and snore, | ||
And dream of earthquake! In his brain he feels | ||
The mighty arm of mist, that shakes the shore | ||
Along the throng'd canal, in ceaseless roar | ||
25 | Urging the heavy forge, the clanking mill, | |
The rapid tilt, and screaming, sparkling stone. | ||
Is this the spot where stoop'd the ash-crown'd hill | ||
To meet the vale, when bee-loved banks, o'ergrown | ||
With broom and woodbine, heard the cushat lone | ||
30 | Coo for her absent love? - Oh, ne'er again | |
Will Andrew pluck the freckled foxglove here! | ||
How like a monster, with a league-long mane, | ||
Or Titan's rocket, in its high career, | ||
Towers the dense smoke! The falcon, wheeling near, | ||
35 | Turns, and the angry crow seeks purer skies. | |
4 | ||
At first, with lifted hands in mute surprise, | ||
Old Andrew listens to the mingled sound | ||
Of hammer, roll and wheel. His sightless eyes | ||
Brighten with generous pride, that man hath found | ||
5 | Redemption from the manacles which bound | |
His powers for many an age. A poor man's boy | ||
Constructed these grand works! Lo! like the sun, | ||
Shines knowledge now on all! He thinks with joy | ||
Of that futurity which is begun - | ||
10 | Of that great victory which shall be won | |
By Truth o'er Falsehood; and already feels | ||
Earth shaken by the conflict. But a low | ||
Deep sigh escapes him; sadness o'er him steals, | ||
Shading his noble heart with selfish woe; | ||
15 | Yes, Envy clouds his melancholy brow. | |
What! shall the good old times, in aught of good, | ||
Yield to the days of cant and parish pay, | ||
The sister-growth of twenty years of blood? | ||
His ancient fame, he feels, is past away; | ||
20 | He is no more the wonder of his day - | |
The far-praised, self-taught, matchless engineer! | ||
5 | ||
But he is still the man who planted here | ||
The first steam-engine seen in all the shire - | ||
Laugh'd at by many an Eldon far and near - | ||
While sundry sage Newcastles, in their ire, | ||
5 | Swore that a roasting in his boiler fire | |
Would best reward the maker. Round his form | ||
The spirit of the Moors wrapp'd fold on fold | ||
Of thund'rous gloom, and flash'd th'indignant storm | ||
From his dilating eyes, when first uproll'd | ||
10 | The volumed smoke, that, like a prophet, told | |
Of horrors yet to come. His angry scowl | ||
Cast night at noon o'er Rivelin and Don, | ||
And scared o'er Loxley's springs the screaming fowl; | ||
For rill and river listen'd, every one, | ||
15 | When the old Tory put his darkness on. | |
Full soon his deep and hollow voice forth brake, | ||
Cursing the tilting, tipling, strange machine; | ||
And then the lightning of his laughter spake, | ||
Calling the thing a Whimsy. To this day | ||
20 | A Whimsy it is call'd, wherever seen; | |
And strangers, travelling by the mail, may see | ||
The coal-devouring monster, as he rides, | ||
And wonder what the uncouth beast may be | ||
That canters, like a horse with wooden sides, | ||
25 | And lifts his food from depths where night presides, | |
With winking taper, o'er the in-back'd slave, | ||
Who, laid face upward, hews the black stone down. | ||
Poor living corpse! He labours in the grave; | ||
Poor two-legg'd mole! He mines for half-a-crown | ||
30 | From morn to eve - that wolves, who sleep on down, | |
And pare our bones, may eat their bread-tax warm! | ||
6 | ||
But could poor Andrew's Whimsy boast an arm, | ||
A back like these? Upstart of Yesterday! | ||
Thou doubler of the rent of every farm, | ||
From John o' Groat's to Cornwall's farthest bay! | ||
5 | Engine of Watt! unrivall'd is thy sway. | |
Compared with thine, what is the tyrant's power? | ||
His might destroys, while thine creates and saves. | ||
Thy triumphs live and grow, like fruit and flower; | ||
But his are writ in blood, and read on graves! | ||
10 | Let him yoke all his regimented slaves, | |
And bid them strive to wield thy tireless fly, | ||
As thou canst wield it. Soon his baffled bands | ||
Would yield to thee, despite his wrathful eye. | ||
Lo! unto thee both Indies lift their hands! | ||
15 | The vapoury pulse is felt on farthest strands! | |
Thou tirest not, complainest not - though blind | ||
As human pride (earth's lowest dust) art thou. | ||
Child of pale thought! dread masterpiece of mind! | ||
To-morrow thou wilt labour, deaf as now! | ||
20 | And must we say thou soul is wanting here? | |
7 | ||
No; there he moves, the thoughtful engineer, | ||
The soul of all this motion; rule in hand, | ||
And coarsely apron'd - simple, plain, sincere - | ||
An honest man; self-taught to understand | ||
5 | The useful wonders which he built and plann'd. | |
Self-taught to read and write - a poor man's son, | ||
Though poor no more - how would he sit alone, | ||
When the hard labour of the day was done, | ||
Bent o'er his table, silent as a stone, | ||
10 | To make the wisdom of the wise his own! | |
How oft of Brindley's deeds th'apprenticed boy | ||
Would speak delighted, long ere freedom came! | ||
And talk of Watt! while, shedding tears of joy, | ||
His widow'd mother heard, and hoped the name | ||
15 | Of her poor boy, like theirs, would rise to fame. | |
Was not her love prophetic? Is he famed? | ||
Yea; for deep foresight, and improving skill, | ||
And patience, which might make the proud ashamed. | ||
Built by himself, lo! yonder, from the hill | ||
20 | His dwelling peeps! - and she is with him still; | |
Happy to live, and well prepared to die! | ||
8 | ||
How unlike him is Grip, the upstart sly, | ||
Who on the dunghill, whence he lately rose, | ||
Lost his large organ of identity, | ||
And left his sire to starve! Alas, he knows | ||
5 | No poor man now! But every day he goes | |
To visit his nine acres, pitiless | ||
Of him who tills the road, that shoeless boor | ||
Who feeds his brother exile in distress. | ||
Hark! Muttering oaths, he wonders why our poor | ||
10 | Are not all Irish! Eyeing, then, the moor, | |
He swears, if he were king, what he would do! | ||
Our corn-importing rogues should have a fall; | ||
For he would plough the rocks, and trench them too. | ||
And then of bloody papists doth he bawl; | ||
15 | If he were king, he'd (damn them!) shoot them all. | |
And then he quotes the Duke! and sagely thinks | ||
That princes should be loyal to the throne. | ||
And then he talks of privilege - and winks: | ||
Game he can't eat, he hints; but kills his own. | ||
20 | And then he calls the land a marrow bone, | |
Which tradesmen suck; for he no longer trades, | ||
But talks of traffic with defensive sneer. | ||
Full deeply is he learn'd in modes and grades, | ||
And condescends to think my Lord his peer! | ||
25 | Yet, lo! he noddeth at the engineer - | |
Grins at the fellow - grunts - and lounges on! | ||
First published 1876
Stephen Van-Hagen