THE SLAG

Among bleak hills of mounded slag they walked,

‘ Neath sullen evening skies that seemed to sag

O'er-burdened by the belching smoke, and lie

Upon their aching foreheads, dense and dank,

Till both felt youth within them fail and flag —

Even as the flame which shot a fiery rag

A fluttering moment through the murky sky

Above the black blast-furnaces, then sank

Again beneath the iron bell close-bound —

And it was all that they could do to drag

Themselves along,‘ neath that dead-weight of smoke,

Over the cinder-blasted, barren ground.

Though fitfully and fretfully she talked,

He never turned his eyes to her, or spoke:

And as he slouched with her along the track

That skirted a stupendous, lowering mound,

With listless eyes, and o'er-strained sinews slack,

She bit a petted, puckered lip, and frowned

To think she ever should be walking out

With this tongue-tied, slow-witted, hulking lout,

As cold and dull and lifeless as the slag.

And, all on edge, o'erwrought by the crampt day

Of crouched, close stitching at her dull machine,

It seemed to her a girl of seventeen

Should have, at least, an hour of careless talking —

Should have, at least, an hour of life, out walking

Beside a lover, mettlesome and gay —

Not through her too short freedom doomed to lag

Beside a sparkless giant, glum and grim,

Till all her eager youth should waste away.

Yet, even as she looked askance at him —

Well-knit, big-thewed, broad-chested, steady-eyed —

She dimly knew of depths she could not sound

In this strong lover, silent at her side:

And, once again, her heart was touched with pride

To think that he was hers, this strapping lad —

Black-haired, close-cropt, clean-skinned, and neatly clad...

His crimson neckerchief, so smartly tied —

And hers alone, and more than all she had

In all the world to her... and yet, so grave!

If he would only shew that he was glad

To be with her — a gleam, a spark of fire,

A spurt of flame to shoot into the night,

A moment through the murky heavens to wave

An eager beacon of enkindling light

In answer to her young heart's quick desire!

Yet, though he walked with dreaming eyes agaze,

As, deep within a mound of slag, a core

Of unseen fire may smoulder many days,

Till suddenly the whole heap glow ablaze,

That seemed, but now, dead cinder, grey and cold,

Life smouldered in his heart. The fire he fed

Day-long in the tall furnace just ahead

From that frail gallery slung against the sky

Had burned through all his being, till the ore

Glowed in him. Though no surface-stream of gold

Quick-molten slag of speech was his to spill

Unceasingly, the burning metal still

Seethed in him, from the broken furnace-side

To burst at any moment in a tide

Of white-hot molten iron o'er the mould...

But still he spoke no word as they strolled on

Into the early-gathering Winter night:

And, as she watched the leaping furnace-light,

She had no thought of smouldering fires unseen...

The daylong clattering whirr of her machine

Hummed in her ears again — the straining thread

And stabbing needle starting through her head —

Until the last dull gleam of day was gone...

When, all at once, upon the right,

A crackling crash, a blinding flare...

A shower of cinders through the air...

A grind of blocks of slag aslide...

And, far above them, in the night,

The looming heap had opened wide

About a fiery, gaping pit...

And, startled and aghast at it,

With clasping hands they stood astare,

And gazed upon the awful glare:

And, as she felt him clutch her hand,

She seemed to know her heart's desire,

For evermore with him to stand

In that enkindling blaze of fire...

When, suddenly, he left her side;

And started scrambling up the heap:

And, looking up, with stifled cry,

She saw, against the glowing sky,

Almost upon the pit's red brink,

A little lad, stock-still with fright

Before the blazing pit of dread

Agape before him in the night,

Where, playing castles on the height

Since noon, he'd fallen, spent, asleep

And dreaming he was home in bed...

With brain afire, too strained to think,

She watched her lover climb and leap

From jag to jag

Of broken slag...

And still he only seemed to creep...

She felt that he would never reach

That little lad, though he should climb

Until the very end of time...

And, as she looked, the burning breach

Gaped suddenly more wide...

The slag again began to slide,

And crash into the pit,

Until the dazed lad's feet

Stood on the edge of it.

She saw him reel and fall...

And thought him done for... then

Her lover, brave and tall,

Against the glare and heat,

A very fire-bright god of men!

He stooped... and now she knew the lad

Was safe with Robert, after all.

And while she watched, a throng of folk

Attracted by the crash and flare,

Had gathered round, though no one spoke

But all stood terror-stricken there,

With lifted eyes and indrawn breath,

Until the lad was snatched from death

Upon the very pit's edge, when,

As Robert picked him up, and turned,

A sigh ran through the crowd; and fear

Gave place to joy, as cheer on cheer

Sang through the kindled air...

But still she never uttered word,

As though she neither saw nor heard;

Till as, at last, her lad drew near,

She saw him bend with tender care

Over the sobbing child who lay

Safe in his arms, and hug him tight

Against his breast — his brow alight

With eager, loving eyes that burned

In his transfigured face aflame...

And even when the parents came

It almost seemed that he was loth

To yield them up their little son;

As though the lad were his by right

Of rescue, from the pit's edge won.

Then, as his eyes met hers, she felt

An answering thrill of tenderness

Run, quickening, through her breast; and both

Stood quivering there, with envious eyes,

And stricken with a strange distress,

As quickly homeward through the night

The happy parents bore their boy...

And then, about her reeling bright,

The whole night seemed to her to melt

In one fierce, fiery flood of joy.