Poems (Merrill)/The Burning of the Turner Mill
THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL
Calmly dawned the Sabbath morning O'er Turner's hills and moors; And peaceful lay the village— By fair Nezinscot's shores.
Rich and abundant blessings Seemed showering o'er the land Like dews of Heaven, diffusing As by some unseen Hand.
A verdant, fertile valley That spread afar was seen; With anon interspersing The river's azure sheen.
And on the green banks, winding In gentle, graceful curve; Where rank, tenebrous foliage The feather'd nestlings serve.
Stood giant oaks primeval, Which thrust their branches wide Where dancing ripples sparkled Upon the eddying tide.
Bright spires, ever gleaming From tall majestic domes Like sentinels seemed guarding The scores of happy homes.
A picture fair and lovely The landscape lay that morn,—As tho' by seraph painted Upon the wings of dawn.
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The first chimes from the steeples Rang out in accents clear; And like accordant music Fell on the listening ear.—
As yet no note of sorrow Was mingled in their tone; They seemed like benedictions Descending from the Throne.
No thought had the good people Of shadows hovering near—No thought that ere the noon-tide Full many a bitter tear
Would fall.—(Oh! all-wise Father— By thy supernal power Revert the pending danger Ere falls the fatal hour!
Ah! why?—our hearts may question,— Ye mortals!—none can tell! 'Tis meet, on Him relying Who doeth all things well.)—
Once more the bells' sweet music From all the belfrys rang; Bidding the folk to gather For worship.—Praise they sang.
And as they turned their footsteps— Each toward his wonted church; All was serene and peaceful As far as eye could search.
But hark! What meant the tumult Arising in yon street—And why disperse those people With swiftly hurrying feet?—
And why that shrill voice shouting As if in dire alarm—Did'st know 'twas misdemeanor To break the Sabbath calm?—
As onward sped the herald. With face the hue of death And wild-bright eyes, an instant He paused to regain breath,—
Then quick, in tones reverberant That pealed from spire to spire Rang out the cry of terror:— "The mill! The mill's on fire!"
(Thro' the surrounding valley, And o'er adjacent hill; The echoes oft repeated:— "There's fire in the mill!")
Amazed were all the people— No word their lips could frame As on the breeze's soft pinions Again the wild cries came:—
"The mill! The mill is burning!" At last, as if from sleep They wakened to the danger,— Beheld a bright flame leap!—
Ascending and expanding. Columns of smoke arose As from volcanic crater Where molten lava flows.—
Again the cry resounded:— "The mill is all on fire!"—And catching up the tidings The bells 'neath every spire
Tolled franticly the warning.— With clanging, vibrant tongue They sent abroad the message The village folk among!
Lo! Turner's happy village— That peaceful, pleasant scene Transformed in one brief moment To one of sorrow keen.—
The smoke grew darker, denser, Fierce flames leaped high and higher,—"Oh for Niagarian torrent To quench the cruel fire!"
Red tongues from every window Shot forth.—As fortress gray Shoots flame from belching cannon In battle's grim array.—
As pillar after pillar Of smoke arose, which claimed The attention of the people As high the rafters flamed—
As stood they mute, and helpless. While cinders rose and fell 'Mid the crackling and roaring No mortal power could quell
A cry to Heaven ascended— (Thro' bravest hearts a thrill Of horror crept:)—The proprietor Is in the burning mill!"
Then stood aghast the people, Astounded, stricken, dazed.—While in that glowing furnace The timbers cracked and blazed.
And, as the smoke ascended In black, dense, billowy waves; Each heart cried out in anguish:— "Oh Father, God who saves
Look down in thy compassion!— The mad flames dart and sway Like ruddy, fork-tongued dragons That swift devour their prey.—
The winds sang a requiem, And many a silent prayer Arose. As smoke and flame illumined The sky with lurid glare.—
Oh! friends and loving kindred— Your hearts in grief must bow; The proprietor of the factory Needs not your pity now!
An Angel came and bore him. To that celestial shore Where all from earthly trials Shall triumph evermore.
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Once more the scene is pleasant O'er Turner's hills and moors; And peaceful lies the village By fair Nezinscot's shores.
Green meadows ever rolling The pine-clad hills between With anon interspersing The river's azure sheen.
And on its pebbly beaches, Where winds the glistening curve, Still soft, pendulous verdure The feathered nestlings serve.
The lofty oaks primeval Still thrust their branches wide; Where silvery wavelets sparkle Upon the bounding tide.
Yet by the rushing waters That sweep adown the strand; A silent, rugged spectre The grim old ruins stand.
The bleak walls, rent and jagged,— As mountain walls might frown That thro' convulsive earthquake Its crest had swallowed down.
The winds, thro' crevice wailing In sweetly plaintive air, A perpetual dirge descanteth For him, who perished there.
Thro' all the years now vanished, Neglected and forlorn; It stands alone, and mutely Bespeaks of days agone.
No loom or wheel is busy— Revolving band ne'er whirrs—No "Factory bell" each morning The village folk bestirs.
No structure supersedeth Where flow these waters free;—Tho' none can e'er determine What may in future be.
Yet now, as rubious sunset In splendor gilds the waves; And sweet, naiadic music Is wafting from the caves—
Oft in disconsolation The zephyrs whisper still This tragic tale:—relating, The burning of the mill.
