The Song of Steam

Harness me down with your iron bands;
Be sure of your curb and rein:
For I scorn the power of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain!
How I laugh' d, as I lay conceal'd from sight,
For many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power!
When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,
Creeping along, a snail-like band,
Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I mark'd the peasant fairly reel
With the toil which he faintly bore,
As he feebly turn'd the tardy wheel,
Or tugg'd at the weary oar:
When I measured the panting courser's speed,
The flight of the courier-dove,
As they bore the law a king decreed,
Or the lines of impatient love —
I could not but think how the world would feel,
As these were outstripp'd afar,
When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
Or chain'd to the flying car!
Ha, ha, ha! they found me at last;
They invited me forth at length,
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast,
And laugh'd in my iron strength!
Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
On the earth and ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
Nor wait for wind and tide.
Hurrah! hurrah! the water's o'er,
The mountains steep decline;
Time — space — have yielded to my power;
The world — the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest,
Or those where his beams decline;
The giant streams of the queenly West,
And the Orient floods divine.
The ocean pales where'er I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice,
And the monsters of the briny deep
Cower, trembling at my voice.
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth,
The thoughts of his godlike mind;
The wind lags after my flying forth,
The lightning is left behind.
In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine
My tireless arm doth play,
Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day.
I bring earth's glittering jewels up
From the hidden cave below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush o'erflow.
I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel
Where my arms of strength are made.
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint —
I carry, I spin, I weave;
And all my doings I put into print
On every Saturday eve.
I've no muscles to weary, no breast to decay,
No bones to be "laid on the shelf,"
And soon I intend you may "go and play,"
While I manage this world myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands;
Be sure of your curb and rein:
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain!