  A cabin! It nestled amid the green hills Where grew no bramble or thistle,— Mid meadows melodious with music and trills And song that the wild-throated mocking bird spills On the air from his marvelous whistle. No carpets were seen on the broad puncheon floors, No paintings 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, '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! |
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