THE MILL-STREAM.

The wild mill-stream it dasheth,

In merriment away,

And keeps the miller and his son So busy all the day!

Into the mad mill-stream

The mountain roses fall; And fern and adder's-tongue Grow on the old mill-wall. The tarn is on the upland moor, Where not a leaf doth grow; And through the mountain gashes The merry mill-stream dashes Down to the sea below;

But in the quiet hollows

The red trout groweth prime, For the miller and the miller's son To angle when they 've time.

Then fair befall the stream

That turns the mountain mill, And fair befall the narrow road That windeth up the hill! And good luck to the countryman, And to his old grey mare, That upward toileth steadily, With meal-sacks laden heavily,

In storms as well as fair!

And good luck to the miller,

And to the miller's son;

And ever may the mill-wheel turn, While mountain waters run!

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.