The Slag

The Slag written by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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       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.

       On the edge, and over-wrought 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-cropped, clean-skinned, and neatly clad . . .
       His crimson neckerchief, so smartly tied--
       All hers alone, and more than all she had
       In all the world to her . . . and yet, so grave!
       If he would only show 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 burn 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 hung 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 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
       Above 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 a 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.

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