that wealth would reveal;
But a statue was there that Art can not know,
That filled the rude room with a musical glow,--
'Twas Ruth at the Old Spinning Wheel!

Long years have passed by; its music was stilled
At rattle and whirr of machinery.
And the pea-fowl now screams where the mocking bird trilled,
And the landscape is dead where once the heart thrilled
At wildwood and picturesque scenery.
The opera may boast the diva of song,
To me she makes no appeal;
To flute obligato my heart is still dumb,
But oh! for the song and musical hum
Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel!

She lived but a simple, plain rustic life,
Yet charming in sooth was her beauty.
In her untutored heart was love ever rife,
The seat of no conflict, no struggle or strife
'Twixt a selfish will and duty.
I bow at her altar of beauty and truth,
At the shrine of her heart do I kneel,
With a prayer no mortal ever lifted above,
Till my soul is atune with the music of love
She sings to the Old Spinning Wheel!

This unlettered maiden was poor, but high-bred,
Oh, women of fashion far above you!
And I thrilled at the graceful poise of her head
And the radiant smile of my love when she said,
"Why James, you know that I love you."
Nymph-like her lithe form swayed as in dance,
I awkwardly sat at the reel--
A moment's surcease of monotonous thrum,--
Melodious the lull in the song and the hum
Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel!

The glow of the incandescent light
Has banished the tallow candle;
And the ox-cart is gone at steam's rapid flight,
But Love is too subtle, is too recondite
For Learning or Genius to handle.
All honor to Science, let her keep her mad pace,
I abate not a tittle her zeal;
But the splendors of life can never efface
The picture of Ruth in plain rustic grace
Who wrought at the Old Spinning Wheel!

THE OLD WATER MILL

'Twas grinding day at the Old Water Mill,
But holiday with me,
For I knew ere I reached the foot of the hill
And heard the voice of the happy rill,
The miller's beautiful child was there
That wore the tresses of sun-lit hair
And smile of witchery;
And the twittering swallows awhirl in the air,
Told in their ecstacy
That Rachel, the Golden Daffod