We sit by the dam of the placid stream
And watch the whirl and churn
Of the pouring floods that bubble and steam
And glitter and flash in the bright sunbeam,
While steadily rolls the dripping wheel
That slowly grinds the farmers' meal,
Who restless wait their turn;
But the lights in the miller's face reveal
Never the least concern,
Who takes his toll, and whistles until
The hopper is drained at the Old Water Mill.
To-day we passed where the Old Water Mill
Had stood in the long ago,
But the cataracts leap no more on the hill,
And the boom of the roaring dam is still,
For the gleaming stream in its grief went dry,
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.
WATERLOO
A meeting-house, no church at all,
With stained cathedral glass,
With lofty spire and arching hall,
And terraced lawns of grass:
No organ peals, no chanting choir,
No frescoed walls that men admire
Had this old meeting-house;
But roses wild their petals piled
About its sacred door,
And locust bloom shed rich perfume,
Upon the air, galore,
Around the meeting-house.
It stood upon a limpid stream
My childhood thought divine,
Whose waters pure did ever gleam
Like shimmering shine of wine;
It stood, alas! but stands no more
Upon the bank or pebbly shore
Of sunny Pleasant Run;
Yet in my dreams, it often seems
I see thee, Waterloo,
And see the flash of beaded splash
Upon the waters too,
While crossing Pleasant Run.
Yes, in my dreams, I often hear
The songs they used to sing—
Those solemn lays of reverent fear,
When Christ indeed was King:
Then sinners bowed when prayer was led
By some poor saint the ravens fed
At holy Waterloo.
How free from lust, the simple trust
Of soul that worshipped there;
How free from guile were men erstwhile
Whose creed was song and prayer,
The creed of Waterloo.
The meeting days were always fair—
God smiled on Waterloo!
And mother rode the dark brown mare,
And took the mule colt, too;
For fashion then did not beguile
A mother's heart with worldly wile,
Ah! happy days agone!
Oh! days no more when mothers wore
Sunhood and riding skirt,
And fathers dressed their Sunday best,
A plain check-cotton-shirt,—
Ah! happy days agone!