When the ruthless hand of Art passed by

And laid the Old Mill low;

And the violets, cold in death, now lie

Wrapped in the glistening snow;

And the biting air is crisp and chill

Around the ruins of the Old Water Mill.

And now we sit by the River of Time

And gaze at the waves below,

But its brink is covered by frost and rime,

And we hear on the wind a muffled chime

Proclaiming the end of a brief sojourn:

Yet the floods of life still whirl and churn

As the currents ebb and flow:—

By the rolling wheel we wait our turn

Calm, but ready to go!

The hopper is drained, but unmoved still,

The Miller who grinds in Time's Water Mill.

[Pg 22]

[Pg 22]

WATERLOO

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