Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat — Slavery

Dickinson riddled her sympathy for slaves in various forms; "a Soul at the White Heat," for example, is based on Longfellow's The Village Blacksmith. Dickinson derived her view from black-smith to white-heat. Longfellow supported the abolitionism.

Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat? ¹
Then crouch within the door－
Red－is the Fire's common tint－
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions, ⁵
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith ⁹
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs－within－
Refining these impatient Ores ¹³
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge－

(F.401/J.365)

[1] Soul:: a serf, slave _{(OED n. 13d)}. White Heat:: vehemence of the white who supported the slavery; the heat and light of a blacksmith's forge, hinted in line nine.
[2] crouch:: to stoop low, to yield in the body.
[3] Red, Fire:: anger, irritation.
[4] quickened:: revived, made alive. Ore:: the native form of a metal.
[6] quivers, Forge:: quivers in their miserable world.
[7] color:: color of the skin.
[8] unanointed:: without being blessed by the church.
[9-12] Village has its Blacksmith:: refering to The Village Blacksmith (1841) by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882). Longfellow's wife died of miscarriage in 1835. In this poem the blacksmith's wife died.
[9] Blacksmith:: Longfellow's poem does not mention the blacksmith's color, but "His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan."
[11-12] symbol, soundless tugs:: a hint on slavery.
[13] impatient Ores:: a hint on black slaves, for color of ore is usually dark.
[14] Hammer, Blaze:: the oppression and plod that lay on slaves.
[15] Light:: concept, view.
[16] Repudiate the Forge:: to reject the slavery system.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,－rejoicing,－sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.