For the National Fireman’s Journal.

’Tis midnight ; the streets of the village are still.

Save the frog’s croak and cricket’s monotonous whirr ; The tired miller sleeps, and he dreams of the mill,

And he hears but its hum and the buzz of the burr.

He forgets Envy’s leer and Adversity’s frown ;

His eyelids cling close, and his pulse flutters soft ; When, sudden, a wild cry of fire goes aloft

And a flame flashes up from the heart of the town !

“Fire! Fire! F-i-r-e! F-i-r-e!” he springs to his feet ;

A moment prepares him to battle with Doom ;

Hf kisses his babes—then he flies to the street Where a home blazes up like a torch in the gloom.

They man Number Two and they fight with thc flame :

Hark ! hear the wild wail from the window above—

A woman : “ Help! help! O, come quick, in God’s name ! Save my babe for the sake of thc babes you love ! ”

A voice answered back, “ I am coming.” ’Tis he !

’Tis thc miller that springs up the ladder to her,

As the flame roared around like a storm on the sea,

And he hears not the drone and the buzz of the burr.

“ Not me ! Find the baby ! ” He hears and speeds on, Only saying “ I’ll bring back your darling or die ! ” Minutes pass, but he comes not. They hear not a moan ; The roof crashes in and the flames mount the sky.

O, horror! the fire ! O, turn hither the stream !

The smoke—how it stifles ! How lurid the view !

The wind fans his cheek. He awakes from his dream. ‘Tinas a dream. But, O, reader! such dreams have come true.

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