An only child the Miller has,
  She looks a damsel of high degree,
White, and tender, and calm, and fair,
With prison'd sunbeams among the hair
  That ripples unto her knee.

Jeanne has suitors, a dozen or more;
  Late and early they come to woo,
But cold is her eye, and cold her lip,
  Unchanging her cheek's soft hue.

"Now, Jeanne, my daughter," the Miller says,
  As he draws his child unto his knee,
"What is it turns thy heart away
  From the best hearts offer'd thee?

"What seekest thou, darling daughter of mine?
  What manner of man should thy husband be?
Seekest thou learning, or beauty, or wealth,
  Or seekest thou high degree?

"Learning maketh the young man old,
  Beauty's deceitful and fadeth fast,
Wealth I hold not in high esteem,
  Though longer its joys may last;

"And high degree, though it sits so fair
  On the brows of those unto honour born,
Is not for us, the tillers of earth,
  The growers and grinders of corn."

Jeanne look'd up in her father's face,
  Sweet were her eyes and very meek,
"None of these things, my father dear,
  Does thy darling daughter seek.

"Art thou weary, my father dear,
  To have me sitting here by thy knee?
Is the home where we both were born
  Grown too narrow for thee and me?

"If it be not so, O father mine,
  And thou lovest the child my mother left
To be a link between her and thee
  When of her thou wert bereft,

"Leave this talk that I hate to hear,
  Bid these wooers in peace depart;
They are nothing to me; they can find no key
  To open the door of my heart."

She has stolen along the wooded bank
  By a path her footsteps alone have made;
The roebuck only lifts his head
  And looks at her unafraid:

The little birds in their secret nests
Never tremble to see her pass,
And the wood anemonies nod and smile
  Amid the lush green grass.

At length she reaches an ancient oak,
  Gnarl'd, and knotted, and half decay'd
('Twas said that beneath that very oak
  The wily serpent maid

Brought from the lake unto Arthur's court
  By Arthur's guest, King Pellenore,
With glamour had won over Merlin sage,
  To betray the hidden store

Of marvellous treasures, rich and rare,
  Kept behind the enchanted stone,
'Neath which she made the enchanter pass,
  Then left him to die alone).

Lithe and active as squirrel she climbs,
  Where wreathing boughs make a leafy nest,
And there she sits without motion or sound
  Save the heaving of her breast.

For soon 'mid the parted brushwood comes
  A footstep—well she knoweth the sound!—
And through the covert Sir Alain breaks
  With his favourite hawk and hound.

All unknowing the maiden near,
  He stretches his limbs on the grass so sweet,
The gentle bird on his finger rests,
  The hound lies down at his feet.

Softly he strokes the gentle bird,
  Softly the jealous hound draws nigh
For a touch of his master's hand, bestow'd
  Between a smile and a sigh.

"Oh," then murmurs the Miller's maid,
  And her cheek with a passionate pain grows pale,
"Must my heart starve with this hunger of love?
  Is my anguish of no avail?

"O summer air that whispers around!
  O flowers laden with odours sweet!
O little birds whose tender wings
  Flutter about my retreat!

"Have ye no voices to murmur low—
  Low in his ear what I must not breathe—
'Love, love, love, is around thee,
Here, in the forest, love hath found thee,
  Love that is stronger than death?'

"What am I saying, O master, mine?
  What is the love of thy slave to thee?
Thou to care for a villein-maid
  When no lady of thy degree

"Thou hast found worthy to share thy home,
  Be the joy and love of thy life,
Noble, but noblest of all in this—
That she call'd herself thy wife.

"Could I be loved as that taméd hawk,
  Even loved as the less-loved hound,
I were content to live and die
  Couch'd at thy feet on the ground."

Little Sir Alain ever knows
  What bird sits there on the great oak limb;
Or, as he rises and wanders on,
  Whose heart goes after him.

And now through all the Breton land
  Goes a stir and a rumour of war,
And Bretons, turning from spade and plough,
  Are arming near and far.

For Charles de Blois, the invader, comes,
  Marching on in the power of might;
Jean de Montfort stands his ground,
  Sure of the power of right.

Sir Alain he leads a gallant band—
  True men and brave as the land can boast,
Men with hearts, and hands, and nerves
  To stand against a host.

Staunch to the call of liberty,
  The sturdy Miller forsakes his mill;
He grinds his broadsword instead of grain,
  And the busy wheel stands still.

"Now God thee save, my darling child,
  And keep thee safe till I come again."
She clung to his breast, and no word she spake,
  But the tears fell down like rain.

"Nay, my daughter, but weep not thus;
  Wouldst thou weaken thy father's heart?
Wipe these tears and smile on me,
  My darling, before we part!"