Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original hand-colored illustrations. See 62767-h.htm or 62767-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62767/62767-h/62767-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62767/62767-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/millerhisgoldend00leoniala Transcriber’s note: The illustrations have been moved to the end of the book to avoid disrupting the flow of the poem. THE MILLER AND HIS GOLDEN DREAM. “With moderate blessings be content, Nor idly grasp at every shade; Peace, competence, a life well spent, Are treasures that can never fade; And he who weakly sighs for more— —Augments his misery, not his store.” BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE RUBY RING,” &c. WELLINGTON, SALOP: _PRINTED BY AND FOR F. HOULSTON AND SON_, And sold by Scatcherd and Co. Ave-Maria Lane, London. 1822. [_Entered at Stationers’ Hall._] Advertisement. In the construction of the following little Poem, the Author has declined the aids of Genii, &c.—the powerful auxiliaries of her two former works,—on the belief that a moral truth requires little of artificial embellishment to render it attractive. She presents therefore a simple unadorned tale to her young readers, as an experiment; not without hope that their reception and approval of it may be such, as to sanction future efforts, and to confirm her in the propriety of her present opinion. THE MILLER. If, ’mid the passions of the breast, There be one deadlier than the rest, Whose poisonous influence would control The generous purpose of the soul, A cruel selfishness impart, And harden, and contract the heart; If such a passion be, the vice Is unrelenting Avarice. And would my youthful readers know The features of this mortal foe, The lineaments will hardly fail To strike them in the following tale. In England—but it matters not That I precisely name the spot— A Miller liv’d, and humble fame Had grac’d with rustic praise his name. For many a year his village neighbours Felt and confess’d his useful labours; Swift flew his hours, on busy wing Revolving in their rosy ring: His life, alternate toil and rest, Nor cares annoy’d, nor want oppress’d.