82
POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL
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.
