Here in the dust, its strange adventures o'er, A hammer rests, that ne'er knew rest before. Released from toil, it slumbers by the side Of one who oft its temper sorely tried; No day e'er passed, but in some desperate strife He risked the faithful hammer's limbs and life: Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball; Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize; But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, He'd mount a precipice that touch'd the skies, And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, I'm sure they almost would have made—a penny! Think, when such deeds as these were daily done, What fearful risks this hammer must have run. And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine In lays more lofty and more famed than mine: Oh! that in strains which ne'er should be forgot, Its deeds were blazon'd forth by Walter Scott! Then should its name with his be closely link'd, And live till every mineral were extinct. Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field— Bid W———'s hammer match Achilles' shield: As for @3my@1 muse, the chaos of her brain, I search for specimens of wit in vain; Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer, And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer; Rememb'ring well, "what perils do environ" Woman or "man that meddles with cold iron." |