Poems (Merrill)/The Burning of the Turner Mill

by Clara A. Merrill

THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL

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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.