Classic Poem

And is this the old mill-stream that ten years ago
Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow;
Whose musical waters would ripple and shine
With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine?

Can this be its bed? I remember it well
When it sparkled like silver through meadow and dell;
When the pet-lamb reposed on its emerald side,
And the minnow and perch darted swift through its tide.

And here was the miller's house, peaceful abode!
Where the flower-twined porch drew all eyes from the road;
Where roses and jasmine embowered the door
That never was closed to the wayworn or poor.

Where the miller, God bless him! oft gave us " a dance, "
And led off the ball with his soul in his glance;
Who, forgetting gray hairs, was as loud in his mirth
As the veriest youngsters that circled his hearth.

Blind Ralph was the only musician we had,
But his tunes — oh! such tunes — would make any heart glad;
" The Roast Beef of Old England, " and " Green grow the Rushes, "
Woke our eyes' brightest beams and our cheeks' warmest flushes.

No lustre resplendent its brilliancy shed,
But the wood fire blazed high, and the board was well spread;
Our seats were undamasked, our partners were rough.
Yet, yet we were happy, and that was enough!

And here was the mill where we idled away
Our holiday hours on a clear summer day
Where Roger, the miller's boy, lolled on a sack,
And chorused his song to the merry click-clack.

But, lo! what rude sacrilege here hath been done?
The streamlet no longer purls on in the sun;
Its course has been turned, and the desolate edge
Is now mournfully covered with duck-weed and sedge.

The mill is in ruins. — No welcoming sound
In the mastiff's quick bark and the wheels dashing round;
The house, too, untenanted — left to decay —
And the miller, long dead: all I loved passed away!

This play-place of childhood was graved on my heart,
In rare Paradise colors that now must depart;
The old water-mill's gone, the fair vision is fled,
And I weep o'er its wreck as I do for the dead.