Classic Poem

H ERE'S the old Mill, shaken, but not outworn,
Which sends its busy " click-clack " down the vale,
Bringing to Fancy fields of waving corn,
Telling of Plenty many a pleasant tale.
'Tis silent now, for, lo! the waters fail;
Yet the blithe Miller, neither hurt nor crossed
By the fantastic doings of John Frost,
Inhales his pipe, and quaffs his horn of ale
At home; or haply to " The Plough " he wends,
Famous for cosy nooks and pots of power —
Where, with a trio of his ancient friends,
He wings the gay, sometimes the noisy hour;
Cracks jokes, laughs loudly, roars a lusty song,
Heedless of Winter's cold, or Woman's sharper tongue.

The Mill is silent only for a space;
When southern winds have set the waters free,
Again the ponderous stones shall run their race,
Whilst the blithe Miller carols in his glee.
Meanwhile, how grand the fettered wheel appears,
Stayed for a time in its industrious whirl —
Bristling with pendent icicles, like spears,
Its mantling mosses hung with glistering pearl!
The Stream, arrested in its wildest course,
How beautifully petrified, and tossed
Into the loveliest shapes, by noiseless force
And wondrous magic of mysterious Frost!
Is not the whole a picture to engage
The Painter's pencil or the Poet's page?