Dismantled Mill, The

A giant guardian of the hill, 
     Tossing in air his frantic arms.
A hundred years the gray old mill
     Has wrestled with the wind and storms
His four impetuous hands, outflung,
     Clutched the four winds, and, for our weal, 
From either eyeless Samson wrung
     Bond-service at his grinding wheel.

A hundred years his granite teeth
     Devoured the sacks of golden grain,
As bees the flower-cups' honied meath,
     Sweeter to give them back again.
A hundred years his bounty gave
     Heaven's answer to the plowman's prayer
For daily bread, where yet no slave 
     To luxury sought for daintier fare.

Whole generations whom he fed
     Have passed, and thrice have younger feet
Effaced the footprints of the dead,
     Still following them with measured beat.
The hands that filled his yawning throat
     Have crumbled into dust, while here 
The fierce Seaconnet winds he smote 
     With stalwart arms, from year to year.

Alas, old Champion! now no more
     Can thy pale, skeleton hands push back 
The gaunt wolf, hunger, from the door, 
     Nor cheer the plowman on his track.
Th' insulting winds have burst thy chain, 
     They hiss and buffet thee in scorn, 
As, impotent against disdain,
     Thy battered torso stands forlorn.

Sad monument of perished use,
     Could not a race that still survives
Protect from insolent abuse
     The guardian of their thousand lives?
Then call thy dusty dead to share 
     The gathering dust of thy decay;
These palmless hands shall greet them fair,
     This ruin crumble, mute as they!