Poems (Cary)/The Mill Maid

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THE MILL-MAID.
Now comb her golden hair away: Meekly and sorrow-ladenShe waited for the closing day— Poor broken-hearted maiden!The ring from off her finger slip, And fold her hands together;No more love's music on her lip Will tremble like a feather.
Each Sabbath-time along the aisle Her step more faintly sounded,The light grew paler in her smile Her cheek less softly rounded;But never sank we in despair Till with that fearful crying,"The mill-maid of the golden hair And lily hand is dying!"
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When the dim shadows of the birch Above her rest are swaying,The pastor of the village church Shall bless the place with praying:Deeming the voiceless sacrifice A loved and lovely blossom,Blown by the winds of Paradise To Jesu's folding bosom.
The mill-wheel for a day is still, The shuttle silent lying,The little homestead on the hill Looks sadder for her dying;But ere the third time in the spire The Sabbath bell is ringing,Not one of all the village choir Will miss the mill-maid's singing.
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