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The Mill Stream.

by Juliana Horatia Ewing

One of a hundred little rills--

Born in the hills,

Nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky,

Sang--"Who so mighty as I?

The farther I flow

The bigger I grow.

I, who was born but a little rill,

Now turn the big wheel of the mill,

Though the surly slave would rather stand still.

Old, and weed-hung, and grim,

I am not afraid of him;

For when I come running and dance on his toes,

With a creak and a groan the monster goes.

And turns faster and faster,

As he learns who is master,

Round and round,

Till the corn is ground,

And the miller smiles as he stands on the bank,

And knows he has me to thank.

Then when he swings the fine sacks of flour,

I feel my power;

But when the children enjoy their food,

I know I'm not only great but good!"

Furthermore sang the brook--

"Who loves the beautiful, let him look!

Garlanding me in shady spots

The Forget-me-nots

Are blue as the summer sky:

Who so lovely as I?

My King-cups of gold

Shine from the shade of the alders old,

Stars of the stream!--

At the water-rat's threshold they gleam.

From below

The Frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow,

And in masses

The Willow-herb, the flags, and the grasses,

Reeds, rushes, and sedges,

Flower and fringe and feather my edges.

To be beautiful is not amiss,

But to be loved is more than this;

And who more sought than I,

By all that run or swim or crawl or fly?

Sober shell-fish and frivolous gnats,

Tawny-eyed water-rats;

The poet with rippling rhymes so fluent,

Boys with boats playing truant,

Cattle wading knee-deep for water;

And the flower-plucking parson's daughter.

Down in my depths dwell creeping things

Who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings,

For--too swift for a school-boy's prize--

Hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies.

At my side the lover lingers,

And with lack-a-daisical fingers,

The Weeping Willow, woe-begone,

Strives to stay me as I run on."

There came an hour

When all this beauty and love and power

Did seem

But a small thing to that Mill Stream.

And then his cry

Was, "Why, oh! why

Am I thus surrounded

With checks and limits, and bounded

By bank and border

To keep me in order,

Against my will?

I, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill!

But for these jealous banks, the good

Of my gracious and fertilizing flood

Might spread to the barren highways,

And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways.

Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave

Her feet in my cooling wave;

When the tender and beautiful Beech

Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach?

Could I but rush with unchecked power,

The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour.

And what are the ends

Of life, but to serve one's friends?"

A day did dawn at last,

When the spirits of the storm and the blast,

Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow,

Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the

valley below.

Dams were broken and weirs came down;

Cottage and mill, country and town,

Shared in the general inundation,

And the following desolation.

Then the Mill Stream rose in its might,

And burst out of bounds to left and to right,

Rushed to the beautiful Beech,

In the meadow far out of reach.

But with such torrents the poor tree died,

Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side.

The cattle swam till they sank,

Trying to find a bank.

Never more shall the broken water-wheel

Grind the corn to make the meal,

To make the children's bread.

The miller was dead.

When the setting sun

Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done

In its hour

Of unlimited power,

And what was left when that had passed by,

Behold the channel was stony and dry.

In uttermost ruin

The Mill Stream had been its own undoing.

Furthermore it had drowned its friend:

This was the end.