Classic Poem

Now comb her golden hair away;
Meekly and sorrow-laden
She waited for the closing day —
Poor broken-hearted maiden!
The ring from off her finger slip,
And fold her hands together;
No more love's music on her lip
Will tremble like a feather.

Each Sabbath-time along the aisle
Her step more faintly sounded,
The light grew paler in her smile
Her cheek less softly rounded;
But never sank we in despair
Till with that fearful crying,
— The mill-maid of the golden hair
And lily hand is dying! —

When the dim shadows of the birch
Above her rest are swaying,
The pastor of the village church
Shall bless the place with praying:
Deeming the voiceless sacrifice
A loved and lovely blossom,
Blown by the winds of Paradise
To Jesu's folding bosom.

The mill-wheel for a day is still,
The shuttle silent lying,
The little homestead on the hill
Looks sadder for her dying;
But ere the third time in the spire
The Sabbath bell is ringing,
Not one of all the village choir
Will miss the mill-maid's singing.