Classic Poem

A certain rich man, stern and proud,
Yet, like a winter hemlock, bowed
With the accumulated weight
Of many snows, o'er his estate
Led his fair grandchild by the hand,
Showing her miles and miles of land,
Meadows and forests, and fields of grain,
Far as her wondering eye could strain;
And all to be hers some future day;
All hers! The realms which round them lay,
Descended were from a lofty line,
Whose precious blood was wine, old wine,
While others' was but water! Now
Their noble tree, from root to bough,
Stood hopeless of all future fruit,
Save from the little orphan shoot,
Lovely, as ever in spring was seen,
Flattering a dying tree with green.

" All these broad lands are mine, " he said,
Laying his hand on the grandchild's head,
" And shall be yours, all yours, one day;
One day, but that is far away.
In heavy coffers, iron-bound,
I have treasured many a golden pound,
Gold, gold, all gold, — a thousand-fold
More than you 'll dream till they are told.
All yours, love, when my sun has set,
But that, my child, is a long time yet.

" This mighty forest must come down,
And bring more gold from yonder town;
They want the wood wherewith to build,
I want the gold for a plan unfilled,
For I must rear a mansion grand,
Grander than any in the land,
At which the envious world will stare,
As if a prince were quartered there;
And you the mistress of it all,
The princess of that noble hall;
And then, at last, the queen, my dear;
The queen! but not this many a year.

" These cabins of my tenants old
Must fall. They mar my dream of gold;
They pay no rent; the men, infirm,
Have all outlived their useful term;
Their homes must all come down, and yield
Their space to the golden harvest-field: —
Down, down! " And he rubbed his hands with glee,
Gloating over his prophecy!
The child gazed up with a look of pain,
That could not make the justice plain,
And sighed, " But would not that be wrong,
Since they have worked for you so long?
What will become of the frail and old,
If they have neither strength nor gold? "
" That is naught to me, " he said, " my child;
Chide from your brain those questions wild:
Who made them poor, and left them so,
Must feed his ravens; let them go!
My thoughts with grander schemes are filled,
I want free scope whereon to build!

" And see, the milldam there, is broke!
And he whose heart was tough as oak,
Too old to toil, too proud to sue,
Sits on the sill with naught to do.
And other mills, some miles away,
Grind larger grists for smaller pay,
And, therefore, must the mill come down! "
Then the little child, with that piteous frown,
Which is not anger, but seems to keep
The tears back that she fain would weep,
Demanded, with low, thoughtful head,
" What will the people do for bread? "
" The best they can, — the best they can! "
Was the jeering answer of the man.
" Let them go beg their cup and crust;
The old mill shall come down to dust!
The spot be cleared; the dam be filled,
To help the landscape when I build! "

He rubbed his hands with new delight,
Then, taking one more circling sight,
And with his own heart reconciled,
Led home the little wondering child.

That night the old man ate and drank,
Thinking only of wealth and rank,
And the mansion, which was all to him.
He drank till his filmy eyes grew dim,
Then, in his great deep-cushioned chair,
Slept, and forgot his golden care.
He slept; the chin upon his breast
Sunk deep and deeper into rest,

Till, with a sudden, noiseless sway,
The dam of life was borne away.
And now the stream lay dead and still;
The breast was cheerless as the mill;
The heart hung like a sultry wheel,
Where ne'er again the wave shall reel,
And never yet was one so skilled,
That dusty ruin to rebuild.

Then laughed that shadowy miser, who
Hath countless coffers, old and new,
All buried full, and more to fill.
" The dam is broke, the cumbrous mill
Is useless now: the fate is just;
Come down it must; aye, down to dust! "
And, rubbing his ghostly hands in glee,
Gloated over his prophecy.

Then spake an angel, on whose tongue
The tremulous voice of pity hung,
" What will become of the houseless soul —
He who sat there taking toll?
An outcast into nameless ways,
Where foot of charity never strays;
Too old to toil; too late to sue;
What will the friendless wanderer do? "

" That's naught to me! " the shade replied
" Let the spirits which he deified,
Which made him rich, yet kept him poor,
Look to him now, for at my door
No mercy dwells! Come down it must,
This crumbling clay; down, down to dust;
And that last mansion which he willed,
My busy architect shall build! "