The Miner.

By the swift-sliding Molyneux,
Beneath the blistering sun,
The miner crouches, dish in hand,
To wrest from some drab patch of sand
Its store of wealth untold.
The captive waters swirl and toss
Within the vessel; soon the dross
Is drained, the labour done.
At last he sees the fruits of toil,
Beholds at last the splendid spoil,
Soft-gleaming grains of gold.
My heart is as a shining dish
Gorged with the dust of years;
And none can tell if that dull earth
Shall ever bring to joyous birth
A treasure rich and rare.
But when you come, as in a dream,
To lave it in love's rushing stream,
And wash it with your tears,
Who knows what precious residue,
Snatched from some desperate Molyneux,
Shall softly sparkle there?

W. Bridgman.