I will not lay my lily past--
Love's light as vanity
When to the mocking wind is cast
The lily, Chastity."
BOUCHE-MIGNONNE.
Bouche-Mignonne liv'd in the mill;
Past the vineyards shady;
Where the sun shone on a rill
Jewell'd like a lady.
Proud the stream with lily-bud,
Gay with glancing swallow;
Swift its trillion-footed flood,
Winding ways to follow.
Coy and still when flying wheel
Rested from its labour;
Singing when it ground the meal
Gay as lute or tabor.
"Bouche-Mignonne" it called, when, red
In the dawn were glowing,
Eaves and mill-wheel, "leave thy bed,
"Hark to me a-flowing!"
Bouche-Mignonne awoke and quick
Glossy tresses braided;
Curious sunbeams cluster'd thick
Vines her casement shaded.
Deep with leaves and blossoms white
Of the morning glory,
Shaking all their banners bright
From the mill, eaves hoary.
Swallows turn'd glossy throats,
Timorous, uncertain,
When to hear their matin notes,
Peep'd she thro' her curtain,
Shook the mill-stream sweet and clear,
With its silver laughter--
Shook the mill from flooring sere
Up to oaken ratter.
"Bouche-Mignonne" it cried "come down!
"Other flowers are stirring;
"Pierre with fingers strong and brown
"Sets the wheel a-birring."
Bouche-Mignonne her distaff plies
Where the willows shiver,
Round the mossy mill-wheel flies;
Dragon-flies a-quiver--
Flash a-thwart the lily-beds,
Pierce the dry reed's thicket:
Where the yellow sunlight treads
Chants the friendly cricket.
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