The Miller and his Golden Drea

If, ’mid the passions of the breast,

There be one deadlier than the rest,

Whose poisonous influence would control

The generous purpose of the soul,

A cruel selfishness impart,

And harden, and contract the heart;

If such a passion be, the vice

Is unrelenting Avarice.

And would my youthful readers know

The features of this mortal foe,

The lineaments will hardly fail

To strike them in the following tale.

[6]

In England—but it matters not

That I precisely name the spot—

A Miller liv’d, and humble fame

Had grac’d with rustic praise his name.

For many a year his village neighbours

Felt and confess’d his useful labours;

Swift flew his hours, on busy wing

Revolving in their rosy ring:

His life, alternate toil and rest,

Nor cares annoy’d, nor want oppress’d.

Whang’s mill, beside a sparkling brook,

Stood shelter’d in a wooded nook:

The stream, the willow’s whispering trees,

The humming of the housing bees,

Swell’d with soft sounds the summer breeze;

Those simple sounds, that to the heart

A soothing influence impart,

And full on every sense convey

Th’ impression of a summer’s day.

[7]

A cot, with clustering ivy crown’d,

Smil’d from a gently sloping mound,

Whose sunny banks, profusely gay,

Gave to the view, in proud display,

The many colour’d buds of May;

Flowers, that spontaneous fringe the brink

Of sinuous Tame, and bend to drink.

My native River! at thy name

What mix’d emotions thrill my frame!

Through the dim vista of past years,

How shadowy soft thy scene appears!

With earliest recollections twin’d,

To thee still fondly turns my mind;

While Memory paints with faithful force

The grace of thy meandering course

’Neath bending boughs, whose mingling shade

Now hid, and now thy stream betray’d.—

Bright—though long distant from my view—

Rise all thy magic charms anew;

[8]

And on thy calm and shallowy shore

Again, in Fancy’s eye, I pore,

The steps retrace, our infant feet

So buoyant trod, and once more meet

Each object in my wandering gaze

That form’d the joys of “other days.”

All, all return, and with them bring

The “life of life,” its vivid spring.

The sun is bright, the flowers re-bloom,

Cold friends are kind, kind e’en the tomb:

For one brief moment ’tis forgot

There once were those, who now are not.

Eyes beam, and hearts as fondly beat,

Voices their wonted tones repeat—

But ’tis on Fancy’s ear alone—

I wake, alas! and all are gone!