636 WILLIAM W. HARNEY, [1850-60. Half-willing to advance, or flee The thing that lay so silently, And moved or muttered not. Adown upon the river's bank, With raven hair, the tresses dank, A corse the yawning waters drank, To cast upon the shore ; The placid features, cold and still, The pallid lip and bosom chill Lay washing at the water's will, And speechless evermore. An ivory arm of purest white Was swinging with the water's might, And swaying slowly left and right, As if the pulse was there ; The eyes were closed upon the cheek. And one white arm was folded meek Upon the bosom fair. And raven shreds were tangled in Among the fingers long and thin. As rent by grief, or chance, or sin, In moments of distress ; The garments, as in hours of trust, Were rent from off the icy bust. That gleamed in loveliness. I, kneeling by that lovely face, And gazing, vainly sought to trace Her name, her station, or her place. But all in vain at last ; — But hark! what sounds are those I meet ? 'Tis hurrying, clambering, stealing feet That fearfully go past. A wave, much larger than the rest, Came rolling o'er that lovely breast. And seizing it from out my quest. It bore it down the tide ; But was not that a horrid dream, That thrilling, shrilly, piercing scream That started from my side ? I turned, but naught of earth was there. Nor specter from the church-yard lair. Nor creature dark, nor foul, nor farr^ Nor living thing, nor dead ; But all was silent, still, and deep, As are forms that lie in sleep. Within their narrow bed. THE OLD MILL. Live and die, live and die. And all the weary, weary years go by, And the quaint Old Mill stands still ; The sun-mixed shade, like a spotted snake. Lies half-hidden in the bosky brake. And half across the rill. The Summer comes, and the Winter comes, And the flower blooms, and the striped bee hums. And the Old Mill stands in the sun ; The lichen hangs from the walls aloof, And the rusty nails from the ragged roof Drop daily, one by one. The long grass grows in the shady pool. Where the cattle used to come to cool, And the rotting wheel stands still ; The gray owl winks in the granary loft, And the sly rat slinks, with a pit-pat soft, From the hopper of the quaint Old Mill. The mill-wheel clicked, and the mill-wheel clacked. And the groaning grooves once creaked and cracked. And the children came and played ; The lazy team, in the days of yore, Munched their fodder at the Old Mill door, Or drowsed in its grateful shade. But the good-wife died, and the miller died, And the children all went for and wide From the play-grouud by the dam ;
