And on its pebbly beaches,
Where winds the glistening curve,
Still soft, pendulous verdure
The feathered nestlings serve.
The lofty oaks primeval
Still thrust their branches wide;
Where silvery wavelets sparkle
Upon the bounding tide.
Yet by the rushing waters
That sweep adown the strand;
A silent, rugged spectre
The grim old ruins stand.
The bleak walls, rent and jagged,—
As mountain walls might frown
That thro’ convulsive earthquake
Its crest had swallowed down.
The winds, thro’ crevice wailing
In sweetly plaintive air,
A perpetual dirge descanteth
For him, who perished there.
Thro’ all the years now vanished,
Neglected and forlorn;
It stands alone, and mutely
Bespeaks of days agone.
No loom or wheel is busy—
Revolving band ne’er whirrs—
No “Factory bell” each morning
The village folk bestirs.
No structure supersedeth
Where flow these waters free;—
Tho’ none can e’er determine
What may in future be.
Yet now, as rubious sunset
In splendor gilds the waves;
And sweet, naiadic music
Is wafting from the caves—
Oft in disconsolation
The zephyrs whisper still
This tragic tale:—relating
The burning of the mill.