Intent on manna still and mortal ends, | Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, Sees it not, neither hears its thundered And gently waits the miller's will. lore. Slowly the Bible of the race is writ, stone; Each age, each kindred, adds a verse to it, Texts of despair or hope, of joy or moan. While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud, While thunder's surges burst on cliff's of cloud, Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit. BEAVER BROOK. HUSHED with broad sunlight lies the hill, And, minuting the long day's loss, Warm noon brims full the valley's cup, Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems Beneath a bony buttonwood The mill's red door lets forth the din; The whitened miller, dust-imbued, Flits past the square of dark within. No mountain torrent's strength is here; Sweet Beaver, child of forest still, Swift slips Undine along the race Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, Floods the dull wheel with light and grace, |