The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Miller and his Golden Dream, by Eliza Lucy Leonard

Transcriber’s Note: The illustrations have been moved to the end of the book to avoid disrupting the flow of the poem.

THE
MILLER
AND
HIS GOLDEN DREAM.

“With moderate blessings be content,

Nor idly grasp at every shade;

Peace, competence, a life well spent,

Are treasures that can never fade;

And he who weakly sighs for more—

—Augments his misery, not his store.”

BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE RUBY RING,” &c.

WELLINGTON, SALOP:
PRINTED BY AND FOR F. HOULSTON AND SON,
And sold by Scatcherd and Co. Ave-Maria Lane, London.

1822.

[Entered at Stationers’ Hall.]

Advertisement.

In the construction of the following little Poem, the Author has declined the aids of Genii, &c.—the powerful auxiliaries of her two former works,—on the belief that a moral truth requires little of artificial embellishment to render it attractive. She presents therefore a simple unadorned tale to her young readers, as an experiment; not without hope that their reception and approval of it may be such, as to sanction future efforts, and to confirm her in the propriety of her present opinion.

THE
MILLER.

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 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 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, that spontaneous fringe 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 once were those, who now are not.

Eyes beam, and hearts as fondly beat,

Voices their wonted tones repeat—

But ’tis on Fancy’s ear alone—

I wake, alas! and all 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 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 loveliest still thy flowers I deem,

And dearest thou, my native stream!

Thus clings around our early joys

A mystic charm no time destroys,

Endearing recollections more,

When all of real joy is o’er.

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 worthy him, 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 an evil of our life.”

“True,” Whang rejoin’d, “the only evil

Whose visits I consider civil;

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

The evil most in haste to leave us.”

’Twere proper that my readers knew,

That, by degrees, this passion grew;

Not always was the silly elf

So craving, coveting of pelf,

Though he was ever prone to hold

In high esteem pound-notes and gold:

And circumstances sometimes root

Firm in the mind the feeblest shoot;

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 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 riches now his 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,

Like him to dream who gain’d the prize:

And doubtless might have 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 the future would 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 the past.

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 Gabble now could prate

That her “last sack had wanted weight.”

She “knew the Miller long ago,

And wonder’d others did 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 Whang

Ceas’d now entirely to harangue

On this dear theme:—he hated doubt,

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 he should dream,

And find th’ anticipated pelf,

To keep the secret to himself;

For he averr’d it “quite vexatious

His wife should be so pertinacious.”

No passions vain her heart 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!’