THEMILLER.

If, ’mid the passions of the breast,There be one deadlier than the rest,Whose poisonous influence would controlThe generous purpose of the soul,A cruel selfishness impart,And harden, and contract the heart;If such a passion be, the viceIs unrelenting Avarice.And would my youthful readers knowThe features of this mortal foe,The lineaments will hardly failTo strike them in the following tale.In England—but it matters notThat I precisely name the spot—A Miller liv’d, and humble fameHad grac’d with rustic praise his name.For many a year his village neighboursFelt and confess’d his useful labours;Swift flew his hours, on busy wingRevolving in their rosy ring:His life, alternate toil and rest,Nor cares annoy’d, nor want oppress’d.Whang’s mill, beside a sparkling brook,Stood shelter’d in a wooded nook:The stream, the willow’s whispering trees,The humming of the housing bees,Swell’d with soft sounds the summer breeze;Those simple sounds, that to the heartA soothing influence impart,And full on every sense conveyTh’ impression of a summer’s day.A cot, with clustering ivy crown’d,Smil’d from a gently sloping mound,Whose sunny banks, profusely gay,Gave to the view, in proud display,The many colour’d buds of May;Flowers, thatspontaneousfringe the brinkOf sinuous Tame, and bend to drink.My native River! at thy nameWhat mix’d emotions thrill my frame!Through the dim vista of past years,How shadowy soft thy scene appears!With earliest recollections twin’d,To thee still fondly turns my mind;While Memory paints with faithful forceThe grace of thy meandering course’Neath bending boughs, whose mingling shadeNow hid, and now thy stream betray’d.—Bright—though long distant from my view—Rise all thy magic charms anew;And on thy calm and shallowy shoreAgain, in Fancy’s eye, I pore,The steps retrace, our infant feetSo buoyant trod, and once more meetEach object in my wandering gazeThat form’d the joys of “other days.”All, all return, and with them bringThe “life of life,” its vivid spring.The sun is bright, the flowers re-bloom,Cold friends are kind, kind e’en the tomb:For one brief moment ’tis forgotThere oncewerethose, who noware not.Eyes beam, and hearts as fondly beat,Voices their wonted tones repeat—But ’tis on Fancy’s ear alone—I wake, alas! andall are gone!Yet, Tame, the theme of childish praise,For thee were fram’d my earliest lays;Thy banks of all were deem’d the pride,Thy flowers, by none to be outvied.Those days are past—and sad I viewThe time I bade thee, Tame, adieu:Those days are gone, and I have seenFull many a river’s margent green;Full many a bursting bud displayThe rich luxuriance of May—But lovelieststillthy flowers I deem,And dearest thou, my native stream!Thus clings around our early joysA mystic charm no time destroys,Endearing recollections more,When all ofrealjoy is o’er.Forgive, Whang, this digressive strain;The journey done, I’m yours again.If for a simile I soughtBack through the distant tracks of thought,The flowers I gather’d by the wayUpon your fabled banks I lay;Where primrose groups were yearly seenPeeping beneath their curtain green,With aromatic mint beside,And violets in purple pride.In gay festoons, o’er hazles thrown,Hung many a woodbine’s floral crown;The brier-rose too, that woos the bee,And thyme, that sighs its odours free.The lark, the blackbird, and the thrush,Hymn’d happiness from every bush:The Eden to their lot assign’dFill’d with content the feather’d kind;Example worthyhim, I ween,Who reign’d sole monarch of the scene—The Miller.——“What!” you will enquire,“Possess’d he not his soul’s desire?Ah! could his wishes soar aboveThe calm of this untroubled grove?”Alas! his frailty must be told—Whang entertain’d a love for gold:And none, whatever their demerit,That did of wealth a store inherit,But gain’d (so strong the dire dominion)Whang’s reverence, and his best opinion.“Gold, my dear spouse,” would cry his wife,“Is call’d anevilof our life.”“True,” Whang rejoin’d, “the onlyevilWhose visits I consider civil;But ’tis, alack!—the thought is grievous—The evilmost in haste to leave us.”’Twere proper that my readers knew,That, bydegrees, this passion grew;Notalwayswas the silly elfSo craving, coveting of pelf,Though he was ever prone to holdIn high esteempound-notesandgold:Andcircumstancessometimes rootFirm in the mind thefeeblestshoot;A truth, erewhile, this man of mealBy his example will reveal.“True,” would he say, “I am not poor:What then? may I not wish for more?This paltry mill provides me food,Keeps dame and I from famine—good!Yet, mark the labour I endure,A meagre living to secure.’Tis lucky that I have my health,Since this poor mill is all my wealth;Though irksome, I confess, to toilTo catch Dame Fortune’s niggard smile,When she so prodigal can beTo men of less desert than me,Throwing her bounties in their lap,Almost without their asking—slap!’Twas but to-day that I was told,With truth I’ll vouch, a pan of goldSeen by a neighbour in a dream——Thrice dreamt on, though, as it should seem—My neighbour dug for, as directed—(Shame had such warning been neglected!)—Dug for, and, better still, he foundA treasure hidden under ground,In the same spot, or thereabout,His happy dream had pointed out.Such richesnowhis coffers fill,No more he labours, let who will.I wish with all my heart,” he cried,“I wish such luck may me betide!”So saying, from the bags he started,While through his brain vague fancies darted,And with a brisker air and gaitHe left the mill to seek his Kate,The golden vision to relate.At eve, before the cottage-door,They talk’d the wondrous story o’er;And every time it was repeated,With warmer hope Whang’s brain was heated.Complacent to his bed he hies,Certain, when sleep should close his eyes,Likehimto dream who gain’d the prize:And doubtlessmighthave dream’d the same;But neither sleep nor vision came.He toss’d and turn’d him all night long,Tried all manœuvres—all were wrong.“Had never known the like before,Was us’d to sleep quite sound, and snore;But now, when he desir’d it most,The art to sleep seem’d wholly lost.”When Hope (t’ indulge a short digression)Gains of weak minds complete possession,She buoys them up, like cork and sail,’Gainst Disappointment’s heavy gale.So Whang, with undishearten’d mind,Trusting thefuturewould be kind,Rose from his dreamless bed next mornNeither discourag’d nor forlorn:With one idea fill’d, he soughtHis mill, but little there he wrought.Week follow’d week, and months the same,Whang slept indeed, but could not dream;Yet, prescient still of his success,His industry grew less and less.He thought it wrong in him to labour,Who, by and by, might, like his neighbour,Receive the happy wish’d-for warning,And wake to thousands in the morning!It was amusing to observeHis solemn pomp, his proud reserve,His sad exchange of glee, for state,That ill-beseem’d his rustic gait.His temper open, far from vicious,Chang’d too—for he was grown ambitious.He, that so early erst was seenWith active step to cross the green,Now slept, supinely slept awayThe prime, the golden hours of day.The sun shot down his highest beamUpon th’ unprofitable stream;Whang’s duty bade him sleep and dream.I will not say but Whang was bornWith sense enough to grind his corn,Or on a market-day to tellWhether ’twere good to buy or sell;But since the store his neighbour found,I dare not say his wits were sound.In sad neglect the mill-wheel stoodThat long supplied his daily food;And marvelling neighbours shook the head,Amaz’d the Miller’s glee was fled.Some thought his conscience overcastWas but a judgment for thepast.Old Robin with a wink could tellThat “Whang had manag’d matters well;He shrewdly guess’d how things would end,For gain, ill-gotten, would not spend.”And Gammer Gabblenowcould prateThat her “last sack had wanted weight.”She“knew the Miller long ago,And wonder’dothersdid not know.”So all most prudently prepareTo trust their grain to better care.Thus, by degrees the stores declin’d,Till Whang had scarce a batch to grind.No matter! Hope still talk’d the moreAbout his unfound hidden store:But inauspicious yet appear’dHis wish; no warning voice was heard.Now Mistress Whang, of nature humble,Had smil’d to hear her husband grumble,And would admonish him, ’tis said,To chase vain phantoms from his head.She, more incredulous, insistedHis visions ought to be resisted;Thought they had chang’d his very nature,And sourly curl’d each homely feature:She felt full dearly they bestoodSad substitutes for wholesome food.At issue long, as oft the case,The war of words to peace gave place.In truth the visionary WhangCeas’d now entirely to harangueOn this dear theme:—he hateddoubt,And Kate had many, staunch and stout:And in a hostile muster, theyGave her the better of the fray.Though silent on his favourite theme,He did resolve, when heshoulddream,Andfindth’ anticipated pelf,Tokeepthe secret tohimself;For he averr’d it “quite vexatiousHis wife should be so pertinacious.”No passions vainherheart misled:The path of humble peace to treadWas her sole aim; of this secure,She felt content, nor sigh’d for more.She griev’d to find her counsels failing,They were sincere, though unavailing;And oft midst wishes, fears, and sighs,’Twas thus she would soliloquise:—“My pretty window! that commandsThose meadows green, and wooded lands,So sunny, that the latest rayIts panes receive of parting day.O! with what joy, when near it plac’d,I’ve watch’d my husband homeward haste!Or heard, from fair returning late,The welcome sounds of ‘Holla, Kate!’Through it I trace on every handBeauties, would grace a fairy-land,And think that, like a grateful eye,It smiles on all beneath the sky.There, too, my sweet geranium blows,And mignionette, and crimson rose,When all without is clad in snows.I doubt me, if a princess feelsMore joy than that which o’er me steals,When light and morn my slumbers break,And to this blissful scene I wake.I cannot form a wish besideWhat Heaven’s bounty has supplied,Save that to Whang I could impartThe same content that fills my heart;Yield him that thankful state of rest,Or teach toprize the good possess’d.”Good fortune seldom comes too late;For lo! at last indulgent FateSmil’d on the importunate swain,And eas’d at length his anxious pain.Dreams—one,—two,—three,—th’ important number,Omen’d him hence to quit his slumber,With spade and mattock arm’d, to delveSix feet—nay, I believe ’twas twelve,Close by the long-forsaken mill—He flies, the mission to fulfil!The mattock rings, the spade descends,The sturdy arm its vigour lends;At such light labour who could sleep?Whang is already three feet deep!Upon the spade observe him smile:What sees he?—what?—a broken tile;The very tile his dream foretold,A landmark to his pan of gold!Upturns one token more—a bone!And now, behold the broad flat stone!A moment on its ample sizeHe gaz’d with wide distended eyes—“Beneaththatis the pan!” he cries.“’Twas under such a stone as thisThat neighbour Drowsypate found his.So then, at last, my hopes are crown’d!Come, then, let’s raise thee from the ground.”But, ere to lift the stone he tries,He shook his head, not over wise,And, with a self-approving glance,One foot a little in advance,With nose and lip contemptuous curl’d,That said, “A fig for all the world!”He cried, “My wife, she, silly trot!Shall never know the wealth I’ve got:To punish her I made avow;The time is come, I’ll keep it now.She could not dream, poor fool! not she;Some trite old tale of ‘busy bee,’Of saving pins, and pence, and groats,For ever occupiedherthoughts.Besides, the hussey laugh’d outrightWhene’er I pass’d a dreamless night.Yes, yes, I will requite her scorn;She’ll rue it, sure as she is born!”——Ah, bootless boast! the stone so greatExceeds by far his strength in weight.In vain he digs and delves the ground,And clears away the rubbish round,And gathering strength with his vexation,Widens the fearful excavation.He cannot move the stone for life;So forc’d at last, he calls his wife,Imparts the fact so long repress’d,And glads, reluctantly, her breast.The news he stated wak’d her fear;What gave delight at first to hear,One apprehension turn’d to pain—She trembled for her husband’s brain.“Can it be true?” cried she, misdeeming;“Dear Whang, too surely thouart dreaming:Try, recollect thyself, good man—”“Tut, hussey! why, I’ll shew the pan:Only a minute’s help I ask,And thou shalt see’t—a trifling taskJust to remove, I know not what,A stone, it may be, from the spot.Come, come, thy hand.” They gain the door,When, turning, Kate asks, “Are you sure?”“Sure? yes,” vociferates her spouse.This said, they issue from the house—“I’mcertain, as to all I’ve told,As if e’ennowItouch’dthegold:Sureas that I no more will bearThis russet doublet now to wear:—That I no more will condescendTo own Ralph Roughspeech formy friend,Nor tolerate the pert monitionOf neighbours, in my chang’d condition:Sure—but, ye Powers! what do I see?—The mill! the mill!—Oh! woe is me!My only stay, my certain aid,All level with the earth is laid!——Presumptuous! I have scorn’d my fate,And wrought this mischief: all too lateThe error of my life I see,And misery my portion be.Time, that no more I may recal,By wise men priz’d, and dear to all,How have I squander’d! how abus’d!My friends, my neighbours, basely us’d!How shall I bear, acquaintance meeting,Scorn to behold where once was greeting?Now comestheirturn to treat the foolWith jeers, contempt, and ridicule.Laugh’d at on all sides—and to knowAndfeelI havedeserv’dthe blow!Undone by mine own discontent!—But ah! too late I do repent.Forc’d now in poverty to roam,I soon must quit this quiet home;And where with thee, poor Kate! to fly?—Oh! I could lay me down and die!Wretch that I am! Kate, Kate, forgive!”“Mypardon, dearest Whang, receive:But ’twas notIwho gave thee health,Strength, talent to improve thy wealth;Who cast thy lot in such fair land,Or bless’d thee with such liberal hand.O! turn toHimwith thankful prayerWho deigns e’en yet thy life to spare;Implore His pardon—kneel with me;This ruin might have cover’dthee.But thou art spar’d, and yet remainThe means our livelihood to gain:A heartfelt willing perseveranceWill mend our lot before a year hence.Thou knowest well that neighbour RalphEach morn will spare an hour or halfTo help us to repair the mill.”“Doest think,” Whang blushing ask’d, “he will?”“Yes, yes, I do believe so too,He was a neighbour kind and true;And if his counsels gave offence,The fault was in my want of sense.Yet, ideot! I”—“Enough!” cried Kate,Exulting in her alter’d mate;“To see our faults in their just light,Is next akin to acting right.But time no longer let us waste;I’ll to friend Roughspeech quickly haste:Own thou, meanwhile,” she smiling cried,“To have a help-mate in thy brideIstreasure perhapsof equal worthWithaught conceal’d beneath the earth.”With look of conscious proud delight,She caught the sound of, “Kate, thou’rt right;”While a “small voice” responsive join’dApplausive music in her mind.Then turn’d she from the yawning ground,And, eying Whang with thought profound,Saw in his look, on her that bent,A meaning most intelligent.A wish defin’d she saw, and knelt;Beside her soon his form she felt:Then, with join’d hands uplift in air,Burst from their lips the ardent prayer.With brighter hopes from earth they rose,Nor long (—for so the story goes)In idle wailings spent the day:Just then a neighbour pass’d that way.—Whang turn’d his head; a crimson streakRush’d hastily across his cheek,And Cath’rine’s palpitating breastA momentary shame confess’d:For well they knew, Old Robin’s taleSoon through the village would prevail,And bring a host about their ears,With pity some, and some with jeers.Butguiltandfollymust endureThecausticsthat effect a cure.Whang therefore strove, with patient heart,To bear th’ anticipated smart;Nor vainly strove: the threaten’d illFell, he with patience met it still.Few in the morning of his griefOr gave, or proffer’d him relief.Those who hadcounsell’d heretofore,Excus’d themselves from doing more,“Presuming nothingtheycould offerWould meet acceptance from the scoffer.”Others, meanwhile, of nature good,Assisted, comforted, withstoodWith honest scorn the worldling’s cant,Nor shunn’d a neighbour, though in want.To all, Whang bore an humble mien,By all, his contrite spirit’s seen;Till even they who smil’d at first,When o’er his head the tempest burst,Were forc’d, in justice, to declareHis penitenceappear’d sincere.“They trusted, nay,almost believ’dHis loss of character retriev’d:”And, soften’d by his chang’d address,“Good fortunewish’d, and happiness.”And hewashappy—“he was bless’dBeyond desert,” he oft confessed,By friends, by all the good caress’d.A smiling garden, rescu’d mill,His dear old cottage on the hill,A faithful wife, a conscience clear,Shed brightness on each coming year.The church-yard stone, that bears his name,Records his failing and his fame;And, in his life and death, conveysA moral truth to future days.

If, ’mid the passions of the breast,

There be one deadlier than the rest,

Whose poisonous influence would control

The generous purpose of the soul,

A cruel selfishness impart,

And harden, and contract the heart;

If such a passion be, the vice

Is unrelenting Avarice.

And would my youthful readers know

The features of this mortal foe,

The lineaments will hardly fail

To strike them in the following tale.

In England—but it matters notThat I precisely name the spot—A Miller liv’d, and humble fameHad grac’d with rustic praise his name.For many a year his village neighboursFelt and confess’d his useful labours;Swift flew his hours, on busy wingRevolving in their rosy ring:His life, alternate toil and rest,Nor cares annoy’d, nor want oppress’d.

In England—but it matters not

That I precisely name the spot—

A Miller liv’d, and humble fame

Had grac’d with rustic praise his name.

For many a year his village neighbours

Felt and confess’d his useful labours;

Swift flew his hours, on busy wing

Revolving in their rosy ring:

His life, alternate toil and rest,

Nor cares annoy’d, nor want oppress’d.

Whang’s mill, beside a sparkling brook,Stood shelter’d in a wooded nook:The stream, the willow’s whispering trees,The humming of the housing bees,Swell’d with soft sounds the summer breeze;Those simple sounds, that to the heartA soothing influence impart,And full on every sense conveyTh’ impression of a summer’s day.

Whang’s mill, beside a sparkling brook,

Stood shelter’d in a wooded nook:

The stream, the willow’s whispering trees,

The humming of the housing bees,

Swell’d with soft sounds the summer breeze;

Those simple sounds, that to the heart

A soothing influence impart,

And full on every sense convey

Th’ impression of a summer’s day.

A cot, with clustering ivy crown’d,Smil’d from a gently sloping mound,Whose sunny banks, profusely gay,Gave to the view, in proud display,The many colour’d buds of May;Flowers, thatspontaneousfringe the brinkOf sinuous Tame, and bend to drink.My native River! at thy nameWhat mix’d emotions thrill my frame!Through the dim vista of past years,How shadowy soft thy scene appears!With earliest recollections twin’d,To thee still fondly turns my mind;While Memory paints with faithful forceThe grace of thy meandering course’Neath bending boughs, whose mingling shadeNow hid, and now thy stream betray’d.—Bright—though long distant from my view—Rise all thy magic charms anew;And on thy calm and shallowy shoreAgain, in Fancy’s eye, I pore,The steps retrace, our infant feetSo buoyant trod, and once more meetEach object in my wandering gazeThat form’d the joys of “other days.”All, all return, and with them bringThe “life of life,” its vivid spring.The sun is bright, the flowers re-bloom,Cold friends are kind, kind e’en the tomb:For one brief moment ’tis forgotThere oncewerethose, who noware not.Eyes beam, and hearts as fondly beat,Voices their wonted tones repeat—But ’tis on Fancy’s ear alone—I wake, alas! andall are gone!

A cot, with clustering ivy crown’d,

Smil’d from a gently sloping mound,

Whose sunny banks, profusely gay,

Gave to the view, in proud display,

The many colour’d buds of May;

Flowers, thatspontaneousfringe the brink

Of sinuous Tame, and bend to drink.

My native River! at thy name

What mix’d emotions thrill my frame!

Through the dim vista of past years,

How shadowy soft thy scene appears!

With earliest recollections twin’d,

To thee still fondly turns my mind;

While Memory paints with faithful force

The grace of thy meandering course

’Neath bending boughs, whose mingling shade

Now hid, and now thy stream betray’d.—

Bright—though long distant from my view—

Rise all thy magic charms anew;

And on thy calm and shallowy shore

Again, in Fancy’s eye, I pore,

The steps retrace, our infant feet

So buoyant trod, and once more meet

Each object in my wandering gaze

That form’d the joys of “other days.”

All, all return, and with them bring

The “life of life,” its vivid spring.

The sun is bright, the flowers re-bloom,

Cold friends are kind, kind e’en the tomb:

For one brief moment ’tis forgot

There oncewerethose, who noware not.

Eyes beam, and hearts as fondly beat,

Voices their wonted tones repeat—

But ’tis on Fancy’s ear alone—

I wake, alas! andall are gone!

Yet, Tame, the theme of childish praise,For thee were fram’d my earliest lays;Thy banks of all were deem’d the pride,Thy flowers, by none to be outvied.Those days are past—and sad I viewThe time I bade thee, Tame, adieu:Those days are gone, and I have seenFull many a river’s margent green;Full many a bursting bud displayThe rich luxuriance of May—But lovelieststillthy flowers I deem,And dearest thou, my native stream!

Yet, Tame, the theme of childish praise,

For thee were fram’d my earliest lays;

Thy banks of all were deem’d the pride,

Thy flowers, by none to be outvied.

Those days are past—and sad I view

The time I bade thee, Tame, adieu:

Those days are gone, and I have seen

Full many a river’s margent green;

Full many a bursting bud display

The rich luxuriance of May—

But lovelieststillthy flowers I deem,

And dearest thou, my native stream!

Thus clings around our early joysA mystic charm no time destroys,Endearing recollections more,When all ofrealjoy is o’er.

Thus clings around our early joys

A mystic charm no time destroys,

Endearing recollections more,

When all ofrealjoy is o’er.

Forgive, Whang, this digressive strain;The journey done, I’m yours again.If for a simile I soughtBack through the distant tracks of thought,The flowers I gather’d by the wayUpon your fabled banks I lay;Where primrose groups were yearly seenPeeping beneath their curtain green,With aromatic mint beside,And violets in purple pride.In gay festoons, o’er hazles thrown,Hung many a woodbine’s floral crown;The brier-rose too, that woos the bee,And thyme, that sighs its odours free.The lark, the blackbird, and the thrush,Hymn’d happiness from every bush:The Eden to their lot assign’dFill’d with content the feather’d kind;Example worthyhim, I ween,Who reign’d sole monarch of the scene—The Miller.——“What!” you will enquire,“Possess’d he not his soul’s desire?Ah! could his wishes soar aboveThe calm of this untroubled grove?”Alas! his frailty must be told—Whang entertain’d a love for gold:And none, whatever their demerit,That did of wealth a store inherit,But gain’d (so strong the dire dominion)Whang’s reverence, and his best opinion.“Gold, my dear spouse,” would cry his wife,“Is call’d anevilof our life.”“True,” Whang rejoin’d, “the onlyevilWhose visits I consider civil;But ’tis, alack!—the thought is grievous—The evilmost in haste to leave us.”

Forgive, Whang, this digressive strain;

The journey done, I’m yours again.

If for a simile I sought

Back through the distant tracks of thought,

The flowers I gather’d by the way

Upon your fabled banks I lay;

Where primrose groups were yearly seen

Peeping beneath their curtain green,

With aromatic mint beside,

And violets in purple pride.

In gay festoons, o’er hazles thrown,

Hung many a woodbine’s floral crown;

The brier-rose too, that woos the bee,

And thyme, that sighs its odours free.

The lark, the blackbird, and the thrush,

Hymn’d happiness from every bush:

The Eden to their lot assign’d

Fill’d with content the feather’d kind;

Example worthyhim, I ween,

Who reign’d sole monarch of the scene—

The Miller.——“What!” you will enquire,

“Possess’d he not his soul’s desire?

Ah! could his wishes soar above

The calm of this untroubled grove?”

Alas! his frailty must be told—

Whang entertain’d a love for gold:

And none, whatever their demerit,

That did of wealth a store inherit,

But gain’d (so strong the dire dominion)

Whang’s reverence, and his best opinion.

“Gold, my dear spouse,” would cry his wife,

“Is call’d anevilof our life.”

“True,” Whang rejoin’d, “the onlyevil

Whose visits I consider civil;

But ’tis, alack!—the thought is grievous—

The evilmost in haste to leave us.”

’Twere proper that my readers knew,That, bydegrees, this passion grew;Notalwayswas the silly elfSo craving, coveting of pelf,Though he was ever prone to holdIn high esteempound-notesandgold:Andcircumstancessometimes rootFirm in the mind thefeeblestshoot;A truth, erewhile, this man of mealBy his example will reveal.

’Twere proper that my readers knew,

That, bydegrees, this passion grew;

Notalwayswas the silly elf

So craving, coveting of pelf,

Though he was ever prone to hold

In high esteempound-notesandgold:

Andcircumstancessometimes root

Firm in the mind thefeeblestshoot;

A truth, erewhile, this man of meal

By his example will reveal.

“True,” would he say, “I am not poor:What then? may I not wish for more?This paltry mill provides me food,Keeps dame and I from famine—good!Yet, mark the labour I endure,A meagre living to secure.’Tis lucky that I have my health,Since this poor mill is all my wealth;Though irksome, I confess, to toilTo catch Dame Fortune’s niggard smile,When she so prodigal can beTo men of less desert than me,Throwing her bounties in their lap,Almost without their asking—slap!’Twas but to-day that I was told,With truth I’ll vouch, a pan of goldSeen by a neighbour in a dream——Thrice dreamt on, though, as it should seem—My neighbour dug for, as directed—(Shame had such warning been neglected!)—Dug for, and, better still, he foundA treasure hidden under ground,In the same spot, or thereabout,His happy dream had pointed out.Such richesnowhis coffers fill,No more he labours, let who will.I wish with all my heart,” he cried,“I wish such luck may me betide!”So saying, from the bags he started,While through his brain vague fancies darted,And with a brisker air and gaitHe left the mill to seek his Kate,The golden vision to relate.At eve, before the cottage-door,They talk’d the wondrous story o’er;And every time it was repeated,With warmer hope Whang’s brain was heated.Complacent to his bed he hies,Certain, when sleep should close his eyes,Likehimto dream who gain’d the prize:And doubtlessmighthave dream’d the same;But neither sleep nor vision came.He toss’d and turn’d him all night long,Tried all manœuvres—all were wrong.“Had never known the like before,Was us’d to sleep quite sound, and snore;But now, when he desir’d it most,The art to sleep seem’d wholly lost.”

“True,” would he say, “I am not poor:

What then? may I not wish for more?

This paltry mill provides me food,

Keeps dame and I from famine—good!

Yet, mark the labour I endure,

A meagre living to secure.

’Tis lucky that I have my health,

Since this poor mill is all my wealth;

Though irksome, I confess, to toil

To catch Dame Fortune’s niggard smile,

When she so prodigal can be

To men of less desert than me,

Throwing her bounties in their lap,

Almost without their asking—slap!

’Twas but to-day that I was told,

With truth I’ll vouch, a pan of gold

Seen by a neighbour in a dream—

—Thrice dreamt on, though, as it should seem—

My neighbour dug for, as directed—

(Shame had such warning been neglected!)—

Dug for, and, better still, he found

A treasure hidden under ground,

In the same spot, or thereabout,

His happy dream had pointed out.

Such richesnowhis coffers fill,

No more he labours, let who will.

I wish with all my heart,” he cried,

“I wish such luck may me betide!”

So saying, from the bags he started,

While through his brain vague fancies darted,

And with a brisker air and gait

He left the mill to seek his Kate,

The golden vision to relate.

At eve, before the cottage-door,

They talk’d the wondrous story o’er;

And every time it was repeated,

With warmer hope Whang’s brain was heated.

Complacent to his bed he hies,

Certain, when sleep should close his eyes,

Likehimto dream who gain’d the prize:

And doubtlessmighthave dream’d the same;

But neither sleep nor vision came.

He toss’d and turn’d him all night long,

Tried all manœuvres—all were wrong.

“Had never known the like before,

Was us’d to sleep quite sound, and snore;

But now, when he desir’d it most,

The art to sleep seem’d wholly lost.”

When Hope (t’ indulge a short digression)Gains of weak minds complete possession,She buoys them up, like cork and sail,’Gainst Disappointment’s heavy gale.So Whang, with undishearten’d mind,Trusting thefuturewould be kind,Rose from his dreamless bed next mornNeither discourag’d nor forlorn:With one idea fill’d, he soughtHis mill, but little there he wrought.Week follow’d week, and months the same,Whang slept indeed, but could not dream;Yet, prescient still of his success,His industry grew less and less.He thought it wrong in him to labour,Who, by and by, might, like his neighbour,Receive the happy wish’d-for warning,And wake to thousands in the morning!It was amusing to observeHis solemn pomp, his proud reserve,His sad exchange of glee, for state,That ill-beseem’d his rustic gait.His temper open, far from vicious,Chang’d too—for he was grown ambitious.He, that so early erst was seenWith active step to cross the green,Now slept, supinely slept awayThe prime, the golden hours of day.The sun shot down his highest beamUpon th’ unprofitable stream;Whang’s duty bade him sleep and dream.I will not say but Whang was bornWith sense enough to grind his corn,Or on a market-day to tellWhether ’twere good to buy or sell;But since the store his neighbour found,I dare not say his wits were sound.In sad neglect the mill-wheel stoodThat long supplied his daily food;And marvelling neighbours shook the head,Amaz’d the Miller’s glee was fled.Some thought his conscience overcastWas but a judgment for thepast.Old Robin with a wink could tellThat “Whang had manag’d matters well;He shrewdly guess’d how things would end,For gain, ill-gotten, would not spend.”And Gammer Gabblenowcould prateThat her “last sack had wanted weight.”She“knew the Miller long ago,And wonder’dothersdid not know.”So all most prudently prepareTo trust their grain to better care.Thus, by degrees the stores declin’d,Till Whang had scarce a batch to grind.No matter! Hope still talk’d the moreAbout his unfound hidden store:But inauspicious yet appear’dHis wish; no warning voice was heard.Now Mistress Whang, of nature humble,Had smil’d to hear her husband grumble,And would admonish him, ’tis said,To chase vain phantoms from his head.She, more incredulous, insistedHis visions ought to be resisted;Thought they had chang’d his very nature,And sourly curl’d each homely feature:She felt full dearly they bestoodSad substitutes for wholesome food.

When Hope (t’ indulge a short digression)

Gains of weak minds complete possession,

She buoys them up, like cork and sail,

’Gainst Disappointment’s heavy gale.

So Whang, with undishearten’d mind,

Trusting thefuturewould be kind,

Rose from his dreamless bed next morn

Neither discourag’d nor forlorn:

With one idea fill’d, he sought

His mill, but little there he wrought.

Week follow’d week, and months the same,

Whang slept indeed, but could not dream;

Yet, prescient still of his success,

His industry grew less and less.

He thought it wrong in him to labour,

Who, by and by, might, like his neighbour,

Receive the happy wish’d-for warning,

And wake to thousands in the morning!

It was amusing to observe

His solemn pomp, his proud reserve,

His sad exchange of glee, for state,

That ill-beseem’d his rustic gait.

His temper open, far from vicious,

Chang’d too—for he was grown ambitious.

He, that so early erst was seen

With active step to cross the green,

Now slept, supinely slept away

The prime, the golden hours of day.

The sun shot down his highest beam

Upon th’ unprofitable stream;

Whang’s duty bade him sleep and dream.

I will not say but Whang was born

With sense enough to grind his corn,

Or on a market-day to tell

Whether ’twere good to buy or sell;

But since the store his neighbour found,

I dare not say his wits were sound.

In sad neglect the mill-wheel stood

That long supplied his daily food;

And marvelling neighbours shook the head,

Amaz’d the Miller’s glee was fled.

Some thought his conscience overcast

Was but a judgment for thepast.

Old Robin with a wink could tell

That “Whang had manag’d matters well;

He shrewdly guess’d how things would end,

For gain, ill-gotten, would not spend.”

And Gammer Gabblenowcould prate

That her “last sack had wanted weight.”

She“knew the Miller long ago,

And wonder’dothersdid not know.”

So all most prudently prepare

To trust their grain to better care.

Thus, by degrees the stores declin’d,

Till Whang had scarce a batch to grind.

No matter! Hope still talk’d the more

About his unfound hidden store:

But inauspicious yet appear’d

His wish; no warning voice was heard.

Now Mistress Whang, of nature humble,

Had smil’d to hear her husband grumble,

And would admonish him, ’tis said,

To chase vain phantoms from his head.

She, more incredulous, insisted

His visions ought to be resisted;

Thought they had chang’d his very nature,

And sourly curl’d each homely feature:

She felt full dearly they bestood

Sad substitutes for wholesome food.

At issue long, as oft the case,The war of words to peace gave place.In truth the visionary WhangCeas’d now entirely to harangueOn this dear theme:—he hateddoubt,And Kate had many, staunch and stout:And in a hostile muster, theyGave her the better of the fray.Though silent on his favourite theme,He did resolve, when heshoulddream,Andfindth’ anticipated pelf,Tokeepthe secret tohimself;For he averr’d it “quite vexatiousHis wife should be so pertinacious.”No passions vainherheart misled:The path of humble peace to treadWas her sole aim; of this secure,She felt content, nor sigh’d for more.She griev’d to find her counsels failing,They were sincere, though unavailing;And oft midst wishes, fears, and sighs,’Twas thus she would soliloquise:—“My pretty window! that commandsThose meadows green, and wooded lands,So sunny, that the latest rayIts panes receive of parting day.O! with what joy, when near it plac’d,I’ve watch’d my husband homeward haste!Or heard, from fair returning late,The welcome sounds of ‘Holla, Kate!’Through it I trace on every handBeauties, would grace a fairy-land,And think that, like a grateful eye,It smiles on all beneath the sky.There, too, my sweet geranium blows,And mignionette, and crimson rose,When all without is clad in snows.I doubt me, if a princess feelsMore joy than that which o’er me steals,When light and morn my slumbers break,And to this blissful scene I wake.I cannot form a wish besideWhat Heaven’s bounty has supplied,Save that to Whang I could impartThe same content that fills my heart;Yield him that thankful state of rest,Or teach toprize the good possess’d.”

At issue long, as oft the case,

The war of words to peace gave place.

In truth the visionary Whang

Ceas’d now entirely to harangue

On this dear theme:—he hateddoubt,

And Kate had many, staunch and stout:

And in a hostile muster, they

Gave her the better of the fray.

Though silent on his favourite theme,

He did resolve, when heshoulddream,

Andfindth’ anticipated pelf,

Tokeepthe secret tohimself;

For he averr’d it “quite vexatious

His wife should be so pertinacious.”

No passions vainherheart misled:

The path of humble peace to tread

Was her sole aim; of this secure,

She felt content, nor sigh’d for more.

She griev’d to find her counsels failing,

They were sincere, though unavailing;

And oft midst wishes, fears, and sighs,

’Twas thus she would soliloquise:—

“My pretty window! that commands

Those meadows green, and wooded lands,

So sunny, that the latest ray

Its panes receive of parting day.

O! with what joy, when near it plac’d,

I’ve watch’d my husband homeward haste!

Or heard, from fair returning late,

The welcome sounds of ‘Holla, Kate!’

Through it I trace on every hand

Beauties, would grace a fairy-land,

And think that, like a grateful eye,

It smiles on all beneath the sky.

There, too, my sweet geranium blows,

And mignionette, and crimson rose,

When all without is clad in snows.

I doubt me, if a princess feels

More joy than that which o’er me steals,

When light and morn my slumbers break,

And to this blissful scene I wake.

I cannot form a wish beside

What Heaven’s bounty has supplied,

Save that to Whang I could impart

The same content that fills my heart;

Yield him that thankful state of rest,

Or teach toprize the good possess’d.”

Good fortune seldom comes too late;For lo! at last indulgent FateSmil’d on the importunate swain,And eas’d at length his anxious pain.Dreams—one,—two,—three,—th’ important number,Omen’d him hence to quit his slumber,With spade and mattock arm’d, to delveSix feet—nay, I believe ’twas twelve,Close by the long-forsaken mill—He flies, the mission to fulfil!The mattock rings, the spade descends,The sturdy arm its vigour lends;At such light labour who could sleep?Whang is already three feet deep!Upon the spade observe him smile:What sees he?—what?—a broken tile;The very tile his dream foretold,A landmark to his pan of gold!Upturns one token more—a bone!And now, behold the broad flat stone!A moment on its ample sizeHe gaz’d with wide distended eyes—“Beneaththatis the pan!” he cries.“’Twas under such a stone as thisThat neighbour Drowsypate found his.So then, at last, my hopes are crown’d!Come, then, let’s raise thee from the ground.”But, ere to lift the stone he tries,He shook his head, not over wise,And, with a self-approving glance,One foot a little in advance,With nose and lip contemptuous curl’d,That said, “A fig for all the world!”He cried, “My wife, she, silly trot!Shall never know the wealth I’ve got:To punish her I made avow;The time is come, I’ll keep it now.She could not dream, poor fool! not she;Some trite old tale of ‘busy bee,’Of saving pins, and pence, and groats,For ever occupiedherthoughts.Besides, the hussey laugh’d outrightWhene’er I pass’d a dreamless night.Yes, yes, I will requite her scorn;She’ll rue it, sure as she is born!”——Ah, bootless boast! the stone so greatExceeds by far his strength in weight.In vain he digs and delves the ground,And clears away the rubbish round,And gathering strength with his vexation,Widens the fearful excavation.He cannot move the stone for life;So forc’d at last, he calls his wife,Imparts the fact so long repress’d,And glads, reluctantly, her breast.The news he stated wak’d her fear;What gave delight at first to hear,One apprehension turn’d to pain—She trembled for her husband’s brain.“Can it be true?” cried she, misdeeming;“Dear Whang, too surely thouart dreaming:Try, recollect thyself, good man—”“Tut, hussey! why, I’ll shew the pan:Only a minute’s help I ask,And thou shalt see’t—a trifling taskJust to remove, I know not what,A stone, it may be, from the spot.Come, come, thy hand.” They gain the door,When, turning, Kate asks, “Are you sure?”“Sure? yes,” vociferates her spouse.This said, they issue from the house—“I’mcertain, as to all I’ve told,As if e’ennowItouch’dthegold:Sureas that I no more will bearThis russet doublet now to wear:—That I no more will condescendTo own Ralph Roughspeech formy friend,Nor tolerate the pert monitionOf neighbours, in my chang’d condition:Sure—but, ye Powers! what do I see?—The mill! the mill!—Oh! woe is me!My only stay, my certain aid,All level with the earth is laid!——Presumptuous! I have scorn’d my fate,And wrought this mischief: all too lateThe error of my life I see,And misery my portion be.Time, that no more I may recal,By wise men priz’d, and dear to all,How have I squander’d! how abus’d!My friends, my neighbours, basely us’d!How shall I bear, acquaintance meeting,Scorn to behold where once was greeting?Now comestheirturn to treat the foolWith jeers, contempt, and ridicule.Laugh’d at on all sides—and to knowAndfeelI havedeserv’dthe blow!Undone by mine own discontent!—But ah! too late I do repent.Forc’d now in poverty to roam,I soon must quit this quiet home;And where with thee, poor Kate! to fly?—Oh! I could lay me down and die!Wretch that I am! Kate, Kate, forgive!”“Mypardon, dearest Whang, receive:But ’twas notIwho gave thee health,Strength, talent to improve thy wealth;Who cast thy lot in such fair land,Or bless’d thee with such liberal hand.O! turn toHimwith thankful prayerWho deigns e’en yet thy life to spare;Implore His pardon—kneel with me;This ruin might have cover’dthee.But thou art spar’d, and yet remainThe means our livelihood to gain:A heartfelt willing perseveranceWill mend our lot before a year hence.Thou knowest well that neighbour RalphEach morn will spare an hour or halfTo help us to repair the mill.”“Doest think,” Whang blushing ask’d, “he will?”“Yes, yes, I do believe so too,He was a neighbour kind and true;And if his counsels gave offence,The fault was in my want of sense.Yet, ideot! I”—“Enough!” cried Kate,Exulting in her alter’d mate;“To see our faults in their just light,Is next akin to acting right.But time no longer let us waste;I’ll to friend Roughspeech quickly haste:Own thou, meanwhile,” she smiling cried,“To have a help-mate in thy brideIstreasure perhapsof equal worthWithaught conceal’d beneath the earth.”With look of conscious proud delight,She caught the sound of, “Kate, thou’rt right;”While a “small voice” responsive join’dApplausive music in her mind.

Good fortune seldom comes too late;

For lo! at last indulgent Fate

Smil’d on the importunate swain,

And eas’d at length his anxious pain.

Dreams—one,—two,—three,—th’ important number,

Omen’d him hence to quit his slumber,

With spade and mattock arm’d, to delve

Six feet—nay, I believe ’twas twelve,

Close by the long-forsaken mill—

He flies, the mission to fulfil!

The mattock rings, the spade descends,

The sturdy arm its vigour lends;

At such light labour who could sleep?

Whang is already three feet deep!

Upon the spade observe him smile:

What sees he?—what?—a broken tile;

The very tile his dream foretold,

A landmark to his pan of gold!

Upturns one token more—a bone!

And now, behold the broad flat stone!

A moment on its ample size

He gaz’d with wide distended eyes—

“Beneaththatis the pan!” he cries.

“’Twas under such a stone as this

That neighbour Drowsypate found his.

So then, at last, my hopes are crown’d!

Come, then, let’s raise thee from the ground.”

But, ere to lift the stone he tries,

He shook his head, not over wise,

And, with a self-approving glance,

One foot a little in advance,

With nose and lip contemptuous curl’d,

That said, “A fig for all the world!”

He cried, “My wife, she, silly trot!

Shall never know the wealth I’ve got:

To punish her I made avow;

The time is come, I’ll keep it now.

She could not dream, poor fool! not she;

Some trite old tale of ‘busy bee,’

Of saving pins, and pence, and groats,

For ever occupiedherthoughts.

Besides, the hussey laugh’d outright

Whene’er I pass’d a dreamless night.

Yes, yes, I will requite her scorn;

She’ll rue it, sure as she is born!”——

Ah, bootless boast! the stone so great

Exceeds by far his strength in weight.

In vain he digs and delves the ground,

And clears away the rubbish round,

And gathering strength with his vexation,

Widens the fearful excavation.

He cannot move the stone for life;

So forc’d at last, he calls his wife,

Imparts the fact so long repress’d,

And glads, reluctantly, her breast.

The news he stated wak’d her fear;

What gave delight at first to hear,

One apprehension turn’d to pain—

She trembled for her husband’s brain.

“Can it be true?” cried she, misdeeming;

“Dear Whang, too surely thouart dreaming:

Try, recollect thyself, good man—”

“Tut, hussey! why, I’ll shew the pan:

Only a minute’s help I ask,

And thou shalt see’t—a trifling task

Just to remove, I know not what,

A stone, it may be, from the spot.

Come, come, thy hand.” They gain the door,

When, turning, Kate asks, “Are you sure?”

“Sure? yes,” vociferates her spouse.

This said, they issue from the house—

“I’mcertain, as to all I’ve told,

As if e’ennowItouch’dthegold:

Sureas that I no more will bear

This russet doublet now to wear:—

That I no more will condescend

To own Ralph Roughspeech formy friend,

Nor tolerate the pert monition

Of neighbours, in my chang’d condition:

Sure—but, ye Powers! what do I see?—

The mill! the mill!—Oh! woe is me!

My only stay, my certain aid,

All level with the earth is laid!——

Presumptuous! I have scorn’d my fate,

And wrought this mischief: all too late

The error of my life I see,

And misery my portion be.

Time, that no more I may recal,

By wise men priz’d, and dear to all,

How have I squander’d! how abus’d!

My friends, my neighbours, basely us’d!

How shall I bear, acquaintance meeting,

Scorn to behold where once was greeting?

Now comestheirturn to treat the fool

With jeers, contempt, and ridicule.

Laugh’d at on all sides—and to know

AndfeelI havedeserv’dthe blow!

Undone by mine own discontent!—

But ah! too late I do repent.

Forc’d now in poverty to roam,

I soon must quit this quiet home;

And where with thee, poor Kate! to fly?—

Oh! I could lay me down and die!

Wretch that I am! Kate, Kate, forgive!”

“Mypardon, dearest Whang, receive:

But ’twas notIwho gave thee health,

Strength, talent to improve thy wealth;

Who cast thy lot in such fair land,

Or bless’d thee with such liberal hand.

O! turn toHimwith thankful prayer

Who deigns e’en yet thy life to spare;

Implore His pardon—kneel with me;

This ruin might have cover’dthee.

But thou art spar’d, and yet remain

The means our livelihood to gain:

A heartfelt willing perseverance

Will mend our lot before a year hence.

Thou knowest well that neighbour Ralph

Each morn will spare an hour or half

To help us to repair the mill.”

“Doest think,” Whang blushing ask’d, “he will?”

“Yes, yes, I do believe so too,

He was a neighbour kind and true;

And if his counsels gave offence,

The fault was in my want of sense.

Yet, ideot! I”—“Enough!” cried Kate,

Exulting in her alter’d mate;

“To see our faults in their just light,

Is next akin to acting right.

But time no longer let us waste;

I’ll to friend Roughspeech quickly haste:

Own thou, meanwhile,” she smiling cried,

“To have a help-mate in thy bride

Istreasure perhapsof equal worth

Withaught conceal’d beneath the earth.”

With look of conscious proud delight,

She caught the sound of, “Kate, thou’rt right;”

While a “small voice” responsive join’d

Applausive music in her mind.

Then turn’d she from the yawning ground,And, eying Whang with thought profound,Saw in his look, on her that bent,A meaning most intelligent.A wish defin’d she saw, and knelt;Beside her soon his form she felt:Then, with join’d hands uplift in air,Burst from their lips the ardent prayer.With brighter hopes from earth they rose,Nor long (—for so the story goes)In idle wailings spent the day:Just then a neighbour pass’d that way.—Whang turn’d his head; a crimson streakRush’d hastily across his cheek,And Cath’rine’s palpitating breastA momentary shame confess’d:For well they knew, Old Robin’s taleSoon through the village would prevail,And bring a host about their ears,With pity some, and some with jeers.Butguiltandfollymust endureThecausticsthat effect a cure.Whang therefore strove, with patient heart,To bear th’ anticipated smart;Nor vainly strove: the threaten’d illFell, he with patience met it still.Few in the morning of his griefOr gave, or proffer’d him relief.Those who hadcounsell’d heretofore,Excus’d themselves from doing more,“Presuming nothingtheycould offerWould meet acceptance from the scoffer.”Others, meanwhile, of nature good,Assisted, comforted, withstoodWith honest scorn the worldling’s cant,Nor shunn’d a neighbour, though in want.To all, Whang bore an humble mien,By all, his contrite spirit’s seen;Till even they who smil’d at first,When o’er his head the tempest burst,Were forc’d, in justice, to declareHis penitenceappear’d sincere.“They trusted, nay,almost believ’dHis loss of character retriev’d:”And, soften’d by his chang’d address,“Good fortunewish’d, and happiness.”

Then turn’d she from the yawning ground,

And, eying Whang with thought profound,

Saw in his look, on her that bent,

A meaning most intelligent.

A wish defin’d she saw, and knelt;

Beside her soon his form she felt:

Then, with join’d hands uplift in air,

Burst from their lips the ardent prayer.

With brighter hopes from earth they rose,

Nor long (—for so the story goes)

In idle wailings spent the day:

Just then a neighbour pass’d that way.—

Whang turn’d his head; a crimson streak

Rush’d hastily across his cheek,

And Cath’rine’s palpitating breast

A momentary shame confess’d:

For well they knew, Old Robin’s tale

Soon through the village would prevail,

And bring a host about their ears,

With pity some, and some with jeers.

Butguiltandfollymust endure

Thecausticsthat effect a cure.

Whang therefore strove, with patient heart,

To bear th’ anticipated smart;

Nor vainly strove: the threaten’d ill

Fell, he with patience met it still.

Few in the morning of his grief

Or gave, or proffer’d him relief.

Those who hadcounsell’d heretofore,

Excus’d themselves from doing more,

“Presuming nothingtheycould offer

Would meet acceptance from the scoffer.”

Others, meanwhile, of nature good,

Assisted, comforted, withstood

With honest scorn the worldling’s cant,

Nor shunn’d a neighbour, though in want.

To all, Whang bore an humble mien,

By all, his contrite spirit’s seen;

Till even they who smil’d at first,

When o’er his head the tempest burst,

Were forc’d, in justice, to declare

His penitenceappear’d sincere.

“They trusted, nay,almost believ’d

His loss of character retriev’d:”

And, soften’d by his chang’d address,

“Good fortunewish’d, and happiness.”

And hewashappy—“he was bless’dBeyond desert,” he oft confessed,By friends, by all the good caress’d.A smiling garden, rescu’d mill,His dear old cottage on the hill,A faithful wife, a conscience clear,Shed brightness on each coming year.

And hewashappy—“he was bless’d

Beyond desert,” he oft confessed,

By friends, by all the good caress’d.

A smiling garden, rescu’d mill,

His dear old cottage on the hill,

A faithful wife, a conscience clear,

Shed brightness on each coming year.

The church-yard stone, that bears his name,Records his failing and his fame;And, in his life and death, conveysA moral truth to future days.

The church-yard stone, that bears his name,

Records his failing and his fame;

And, in his life and death, conveys

A moral truth to future days.

FINIS.

Burst from their lips the ardent prayer.Page 28.

Burst from their lips the ardent prayer.

Page 28.

’Tis lucky that I have my health.Since this poor mill is all my wealth:Page 12.

’Tis lucky that I have my health.Since this poor mill is all my wealth:

’Tis lucky that I have my health.

Since this poor mill is all my wealth:

Page 12.

At eve before the cottage-door.They talk’d the wondrous story o’er;Page 14.

At eve before the cottage-door.They talk’d the wondrous story o’er;

At eve before the cottage-door.

They talk’d the wondrous story o’er;

Page 14.

My pretty window! that commandsThose meadows green and wooded lands.Page 19.

My pretty window! that commandsThose meadows green and wooded lands.

My pretty window! that commands

Those meadows green and wooded lands.

Page 19.

One foot a little in advance.With nose and lip contemptuous curl’d.That said, “A fig for all the world!”Page 22.

One foot a little in advance.With nose and lip contemptuous curl’d.That said, “A fig for all the world!”

One foot a little in advance.

With nose and lip contemptuous curl’d.

That said, “A fig for all the world!”

Page 22.

——ye Powers! what do I see?——Page 24.

——ye Powers! what do I see?——

Page 24.

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