Falu mogött van egy malom.
Behind our hamlet stands a mill
Where pain is ground, they say
And to that mill in haste will I
To grind my grief away!
Oh miller's maiden ask no more!
Disturb me not too soon,
Through all the morn I think with joy
Upon the afternoon!
A SONG FOR THIS DAY AND GENERATION.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.
BY CHARLES G. EASTMAN.
Come, let us be merry!
The day's growing fair—
And drooping-eyed Patience
Looks up from despair.
Truth, like the glory
Of old times, in story,
Mellows the shadows that darken the land,
Wrongs, grim and hoary,
Crimes, black and gory,
Naked and scoffed in the market-place stand.
Come, let us be merry!
The sundown is near—
And Error is shivering
And shrinking with fear.
Power unmolested
For centuries, vested
In impotent sinew and imbecile brain,
Altars that rested
On mummeries ilested,
Tatters to ruin and not in the rain.
Come, let us be merry!
The sun shines at last—
The light fills the valleys—
The darkness has passed.
Names are neglected,
Blood is rejected,
Men bow no more to the accident Birth,
Mind, long dejected,
Her temple erected,
Waits from the Nations the homage of Worth.