Once, with timid step and soft,
Stealthily I climbed aloft,
Up and up the highest stair;—
Iron cogs were rumbling round,
Every vague and awful sound
Mocked and mumbled at me there.
Wonder if those wheels remain,
And would frighten me again?
Wonder if the miller’s dead?
Wonder if his ghost at night
Haunts the stairs, a phantom white?
Walks the loft with hollow tread?
Spectral, desolate and still,
Stands the solitary mill,
Close beside the gliding stream:
Darkness overtakes the sun,
Suddenly the day is done,
And of Time and Death I dream.
VICTOR.
WHEN June exhaled her rose-sweet breath
And earth in sunshine smiled,
Untimely came intrusive Death
And stole away our child.
As some fast-fading star declines,
Dissolving in the sky;
As wastes the dewdrop while it shines,
So did our darling die.
Ah, fairer than the violet frail,
Frost-slain on April’s breast,
And purer than the lily pale,
The babe’s unbreathing rest.
Our eyes grew numb with tearless woe,
Prayer swooned upon the tongue,
As to his lips of smiling snow
Our anguished kisses clung.
O hapless Victor, name of pride!
Dear hands, poor little feet!
No thorn ye found, no path ye tried;—
O envious winding sheet!
Most mournful change and utter loss!
Return, my child, return!
Or, angels, guide my faith across
The grave his state to learn.