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In the Valley of the Vire
Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer,
And beneath the window sill,
On the stone,
These words alone :
« Oliver Basselin lived here."
Far above it, on the steep,
Ruined stands the old Château ;
Nothing but the donjon-keep
Left for shelter or for show.
Its vacant eyes
Stare at the skies,
Stare at the valley green and deep.
Once a convent, old and brown,
Looked, but ah! it looks no more, From the neighboring hillside down
On the rushing and the roar
Of the stream
Whose sunny gleam
Cheers the little Norman town.
In that darksome mill of stone,
To the water's dash and din,
Careless, humble, and unknown,
Songs that fill
That ancient mill
With a splendor of its own.
Never feeling of unrest
Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed;
Of soaring higher
True, his songs were not divine ;
Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine,
Find an answer in each heart;
But the mirth
Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line.
From the alehouse and the inn,
Opening on the narrow street,
Came the loud, convivial din,
The laughing lays
That in those days Sang the poet Basselin.
In the castle, cased in steel,
Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Watched and waited, spur on heel; But the poet sang for sport
Songs that rang
Songs that lowlier hearts could feel.
In the convent, clad in gray,
Sat the monks in lonely cells, Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,
And the poet heard their bells;
But his rhymes
Found other chimes, Nearer to the earth than they.
Gone are all the barons bold,
Gone are all the knights and squires, Gone the abbot stern and cold,
And the brotherhood of friars;
Not a name
Remains to fame,
From those mouldering days of old !
But the poet's memory here
Of the landscape makes a part;
Like the river, swift and clear,
Flows his song through many a heart ;
That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire.