The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1874-11-24
THH HAUNTED MILL.

There, in the midst of yon Iow-lying land.
She lived and loved that mill and Wondering
witnessd the nrst fruits OF her assr.bsught
bliss,
There .iomb. nor cii@sins knew, loves hill OF
sand,
But thought all heaven within her little reach.
What IN the hn' n %yrt Hs ' woid L .sp5s'' % manly
Made Loves By shri.m of Loves cruel hand,
For never will love with woe be satisfied;
Sad love, who longs for signs and tears. Is grass,
Burned grass, for showers, and bees for bitter
Read but my story, built in rustic rhyme,
About this miller's daughter, the village pride:
Once long ago. q knave her faith belied;
How for loves links to her Death bonds OF
Brought, where that old bridge breaks the Draw
ling tide.
Idly along the meadows, past the mill;
Oaly the ground is white no more with meal,
No more the children hear the at ering
Wondering; but round it wanton rushes blow;
The pool beneath the dam sleeps always still
On the latch her white hands lifted, to and fro
The spider eaves his dusty web at will,
While on the doorstep green lush grasses grow
Here, when at eve the day to rest has lain,
The dim sick last day of the dying year,
The lated rustic hears in the hum of night.
1 oON SOAA0 80 WV o<1N
light
AS the faint murmur of subsiding rain.
Sees by the mouidering beach a woman in pain,
While horror battles in his hair to hear
Her timid voice beseeching him, in vain.
And what is that which thus the wight ARRAYS?
Naught but the airy shape of her, long made
Free OF that city where never light nor dew
The rosy anded hours OF morning threw
On long and clear or short and cloudy days.
"Ah, listen" she cries; but might as well have
The sea be still, wheat grow in the city's ways;
Her soft sad voice none yet has ever stayid-
None, though so strongly with stretched hands
she prays;
Prays till the cocks crow chides the tardy morn,
Waiting, and hopes at last 10 tell her tale
So Odd a tale she hopes TO tell IL still;
But only water washing past the mill,
Only rank wild grass and the weeping thorn
Hear her, and pity, till white stars grow pale
In heaven, and 10! another yea- is born.
Then with such signs her form is forced 10 fail,
AS winds wake whispering through a field OF
corn.
All, loved and lost all, sweet and seventeeni
Like summer fair, and dearer than full sails
Home-set and long-expected, thy neat bands
OF hair, one hue with the haze OF sunset sands
Lie tangled with salt weed, and slippery green,
On some far rock, where lone the hoarse sea
NEW walls,
Wet weed for daisies where his hand had been
For with these gods nor pity nor prayer pre-
walls,
Nor is there any to tell us what they mean.
That New-Years Eve they quarreld. Love, men
say,
These little lovers Anglers but renew.
Not always. Late that night TO meet his dame
And wet with gathering winter acorns, came
Her halting lover; she, but all for play,
Feign'd wrath; she wished him like a woman
10 sue
For grace; he would not; then she turn'd away
Tomorrow he at her feet his fault would rue;
To-morrow-but those hooking gods said Nay.
For she, her lovers last sad gift to save
A toy whose worth love only could esteem,
A brooch Oh color'd glass, and such fine gold
S peddiers sell, for her of wealth untold
Lost by the waters side, had found a grave
Seeking it, fallen in the deep witt stream.
But in the morn pass'd by a sorry knave,
Her suitor scorn'd, and saw in the new suns
CLEAN
saw, Seized, and show'd the gage he swore sh'
gave.
So lying, doom'd her dull swain TO despair,
| Who, since he never saw his darling more,
Deem'd himself fOel'd, her false Alas, but shi
On the swift deep stream drifted out to seal
And now, each New-Years Eve, though late,ye
there
By the broken bridge, say-kirted as OF yore,
She yeaTns to tell a tale for which nom care;
While long in his head dust-closed are win
dow and door
For whom her waste words soothe the wintr.
air.