THE NEW YORK CLIPPER ALMANAC.
 

17
 

A   CHRISTMAS   STORY.
 

W K I T T E N    FOR    THE    NEW   YORK    CLIPPER   ALMANAC.

BY E.  NOEMAN   GUNNISON.
 

CJILENT and lone and dreary
O   The Mill of Devers lies.
With moss-grown roof decaying,

Beneatli the Christmas sliies.
The wheel is hushed and soundless,

The flume is choked and dry,
The hunter gazes sadly

Awhile—then passes by.

Yet upwards from tlie chimney

A curl of smoke is seen.
Which, wavering, slowly passes

The wintry trees between;
For there tlie wandering pipsies

Have built their transient fire;
The nomads of the forest

Still linger with desii-e.

Silent, alas! how silent!

How desolate and still!
And yet the moss-grown building

Was cottage once, and mill.
And there sweet .\lic(» Devers,

The miller's only child.
The sunbeam of his beinp:,

A wild-rose, bloomed and smiled

Old Ben was gnarled and frosty,

And Alice sweet and young;
His lile was tilled with music—

The songs which Alice sung—
Alice, his brown-haired darling.

His dearest one, and be.st:
No wonder that the mill-wheel

I.s silent, and at rest.

The morn scarce kissed her roses,

The ground scarce touched her feet.
So blithe was she, and lithesome,

So fair, so pure and sweet.
The birds for her sanji loudest.

And through the Summer long
The whirring wheel beat music

And timed the maiden's song.
 

The Summer passed, and Autumn—

The foliage lost its green.
At Christmas-time, sweet Alice

One year ago had seen
Her love, and plighted to him

The faith of all her years.
Alas! that here we water

Life's roses Avith our tears!

Now he was coming, coming!

Christmas would see them wed.
She twined a wreatli of liolly

Around her fair young head,
And waited for his footstep.

Robed in the purest white:
One of God's saints in waiting

Upon that Christmas-night.

He came not.   Days departed;

Her voice was hushed and still.
Alas! that man is fickle

In palace or in mill!
Another year passed onAvard;

With hollies on her breast.
At Christmas-time they bore her

And laid her to her rest.

Old Ben was Korely broken.

He missed the voice of song.
And he would sit aad listen

Throu£!;hout the whole day long.
They tried in vain to rouse him,

And told him she was dead.
He said: " 'Tis Alice .singing,"

And sadly shook his head.

At last, one morn, they sought him.

And found him still and white,
Clasping the wreath of holly

She wore that Christmas-night.
The mill is old and moss-grown,

The Hume is choked and dry;
The hunter sadly pauses,

Tiiea passes slowly by.