From the silver, and there shall come forth a vessel for the finer."

He sitteth o'er the fining-pot
With patient tender love.
He doth not set another there
The work to bend above.
But on the molten surface rests
His ever loving eye;
His hand doth gauge the furnace fire,
Nor doth He heed our cry.
But at the perfect moment, when
Upon that molten mass
He seeth there reflected bright
The impress of His face,
His own right hand removeth it.
" It is enough," he cries;
And thus from out our broken hearts
All nature's dross He tries.

H. McD.