It would make a good fort in some hard Indian war.
But they all are gone, its old builders are gone,-
They are all in their graves, and a new race is born :---
All, all of its builders,—the head which had planned,
Each hand which helped raise it, each honest old hand,—
They are gone, all are gone, -all are low in the mould,
And the new mill itself is an hundred years old.
But still, when the harvest has been gathered in,
Up here in the moonlight we always have been;
In the soft autumn midnight, still, year after year,
The wind and the moonlight have found us all here.
But when the frost comes and the sleet and the snow,
And the green leaves are dead, then far southward we go,
And rove 'mid the rich fields of rice and of cane,
Till the bright northern summer recalls us again.
We love the clear breeze o'er the pine-covered hill,
As it sings through the wings of the sturdy old mill.
There it comes! now spring out to the end of each sail,—
And let each arm bend like a mast in a gale.
Round with them,-round with them,-the wind is too slow,
Bear down all together, hallo! there, hallo!
Fill the hoppers below-heap them up till they choke,—
And let the old stones then fly round till they smoke!
Round, round, send them round with a merry good will;
Ha! ha! we are back to the rattling old mill.
And Ephraim, the miller, the drowsy old head,
Who lies now at midnight asleep in his bed,
Should he wake, would suppose
That because the wind blows,
And for no other reason,-around the mill goes,When, at sunrise, he comes, and our work he has found, How little he'll know how his grist has been ground,— Then, round,-send it round!—for our work must be done Ere old Father Ephraim appears with the sun.
Though fair are the plains of the south and the west,
We love the green fields of New-England the best.
For here, while we see o'er the golden-edged plain,
Each low, fertile hillock all waving with grain,
We know, that rewarding its patience and toil,
The hand of the free reaps the fruit of the soil.
We are free as the blue air around us is free,-
And so we would have all God's creatures to be.
Ha, ha! a fresh breeze now comes over the hill:
Each sail feels its breath :-now they stiffen and fill !
Now, now, all is straining above and below,―
And round the quick circle we merrily go :
Round, round,—and now hark to the musical tones That come quivering out from the whirling old stones! What joy can compare
With the life that we bear :
The earth is our play-ground, our home is the air.
How happy are we,
How happy are we,
'Midst the beautiful things of the land and the sea.
When the moonbeams fall clear, through the silence of night,
And the dew-drops are sparkling like gems in the light,
We love, bounding forth with the speed of the gale,
The rich, teeming cornfield's sweet breath to inhale ;
While each stalk gently bends, as they bear us along,
And waves its green arms in response to our song,
And the spindle's tall plume that droops over its head,
Just moves in the air, as it springs from our tread.
And when our gay revels have drawn to a close,
'Mid the cool, verdant foliage, how sweet to repose :
Or to rock in the leaves, when all round us is stilled,
And commune with the life with which nature is filled,
Which above and below,
Rejoicing around us, wherever we go,
And to mortals unknown,
To us hath been shewn
By Him who made all and who sees all alone.
How often we listen delighted, to hear,
Beside the green folds of the delicate ear,
The voice of the tender young mother of corn
Singing 'mid her fair brood which within it were born,
While breathing in fragrance and cradled in silk,
They are drawing forth life from her fulness of milk,
And when the bright days of the summer have fled,
Its beauty all withered, its verdure all dead,
The care and the toil of the season all past,
And the full, golden harvest is gathered at last,—
When the gay, merry groups to the husking repair,
"Though unseen and unheard, yet we often are there.
While the chinks of the barn are all streaming with light,
And sounds of loud glee wake the echoes of night,
Our voices prolong
The laugh and the song,
And answer each shout that bursts forth from the throng.
And when the new grain comes its hoppers to fill,
How dearly we love the old corn-scented mill.
Hallo, then,-rouse all! Ere the night watch is past,
One more merry round let us have, and the last.
To the ends of each arm!—and now pour in the corn :
The daylight is coming, and we must be gone.
Round with them!-ha, ha! how like willows they spring;
And the sails go down skimming like birds on the wing.
Rise all with them cheerly,—then down let them come :
And now hear the stones, how they sparkle and hum.
As they rapidly swing,
Each seems like a glad living creature to sing!
Hark, hark, to their song, how it gushes and swells
With sounds like the low, distant chiming of bells.
Once more, all together :-now, up from below;
There is light in the East ;-we must go-we must go.
There's a cloud passing by,
Over head in the sky,
And there, for an hour, we our fortune will try ;
It is time to be gone,
For the day will soon dawn,
And the cloud reddens now with the tints of the morn.
It is waiting us there,
And our troop it must bear
On a cool, pleasant sail through the pure morning air. See, the coming of day,
Up! through the blue ether! up, up, and away!
And now, the old mill
May go on, if it will,—
Or fold up its wings, for a while, and be still.
Now bright beneath them gleamed the sunlit vale,
And just discerned, the cot from whence they passed,
When stayed the creaking wheels, and slow and pale
Stepp'd forth the sorrowing emigrants, to cast
Upon the home they left, one gaze,—the last.
The grandsire shaded with his trembling hand
The dim
eye, strained upon the roof he reared;
The son but looked, and bowed himself, unmanned,
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