I.
I
see a sleeping village just beneath a towering hill;
Far
up the valley I discern a faintly glimmering rill,
Which
here and there is reinforced by streams of less renown,
Till
through the narrow village comes a river winding down.
I
see the houses glisten in the early morning light,
The
gray church-spire far-shining, and the schoolhouse opposite;
The
stream, the bridge, the spreading pond, which lies so black and still,
And
just below in somber gray, the village cotton mill.
II.
I
hear the rooster crowing as he proudly greets the morn,
Far
down the valley faintly floats a farmer’s breakfast horn;
I
hear the mill bell tolling with its slowly clanging knell,
Which
seems to stir the village from a perfect slumber spell.
I
hear the farmer’s daughters as they throw a sweet good bye,
And
hasten to the village with a measure firm and spry;
I
see their chums who join them all along their grassy way,
All
tripping gaily to the mill – the mill of yesterday.
III
Our
mothers were the mill girls,
And
they lightly spun and wove;
And
our fathers were the farm lads,
Who
won them with their love.
And they were married, bless them,
And
we are what they brought;
And
the hied them to the homesteads
Which
their savings up had brought.
And
the mill it still kept turning,
But
our mothers, bless their hearts,
Couldn’t
let us do the spinning,
So
we dabbled I the arts.
And
they sent us off to college,
And
they scrimped for us until
I
fear we scorned the people
Who
were slaving at the mill.
But
the mill it still kept turning,
Tho’
we answered not the bell;
And
‘twas foreign labor summoned,
And
they did it just as well.
And
the change was slow but certain,
And
‘twas soon no native born
Who
wakened at the tolling
Of
the bell at early morn.
But
the mill it still kept turning,
But
we only heard its call
When
we passed it in the summer,
And
we glanced, but that was all.
And
‘twas dark and stranger faces
Where
our mothers spun and wove;
And
the years they wrought such changes
Since
our fathers won their love!
IV.
I
see a city spreading out o’er once a barren plain,
A
hundred chimneys stretching toward a blue and hazy main;
I
see those brick-capped acres, with a hundred looms in line,
Ten
thousand spindles flying, of a new and swift design.
I
hear the tread of countless feet that hurry in the morn,–
The
bells were not so merciless as is the modern horn –
I
see the black smoke curling as it fills the morning air,
And
hear a thousand whistles in one grand descendant blare.
V.
I
hear the mighty throbbings of the mills throughout the land,
Wear
hordes of men and women through the weary day must stand.
‘Tis
the vastest of industries, and among that toiling throng
I
send my deepest sympathy, the while I sing my song.
I
hear the mighty engines as they make the spindles fly,
Which
have usurped the rivers – that in summer time were dry –
I
see the moss-grown ruins of the mills long passed away,
And
I hold my breath in wonder at the progress of today.
Feb.
28, 1897
