Through corridors, or down the lawn, Which bloomed in beauty like a dawn. Where countless fountains leaptalway, Veiling their silver heights in spray, The choral people held their way. There, 'midst the brightest, brightly shone Dear forms he loved in years agone,- "O, master of these broad estates, "A gleaner, I will follow far, The precious burden borne to Thee!" At morn, some reapers neared the place, Strong men, whose feet recoiled apace, Then, gathering round the upturned face, They saw the lines of pain and care, DOWN TO THE DUST. A CERTAIN rich man, stern and proud, Far as her wondering eye could strain; 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. Gold, gold, all gold,-a thousandfold 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, "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 harvestfieid: Down, down!" And he rubbed his hands with glee, Gloating over his prophecy! 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; "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. The breast was cheerless as the mill; And never yet was one so skilled, 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; ay, down to dust!" And, rubbing his ghostly hands in glee, Gloated over his prophecy. Then spake an angel, on whose tongue He who sat there taking toll? do ?" Oh, tell us not, ye over-wise, Those clusters from the Promised Were welcome to the prophet's eyes. With water at the festive board, Remember how the crystal flood Was turned to purple by our Lord. Then bless the wine, the mellow wine, That flows from the Catawba vine. And yet, beneath these glorious skies, A nobler Vine o'erreaches all; In its support, or in its fall, A mighty nation lives or dies; Its boughs are weighed with Freedom's fruit, Beyond the hungry fox's reach. With sturdy shoulders, each to each, Come, let us guard it branch and root! And bless the wine, the sacred wine, That flows from our great Union vine. |