At The Mill.

    The water-wheel goes 'round and 'round
    With heavy sighs of mournful sound,
    While dismal cries and weary moans
    Unite with sad and tearful groans,
    And weeping waves of water throw
        Afar the echoes of their sadness,
    And cadences of plaintive woe
        Dispel each little note of gladness.

    My daily life goes 'round and 'round,
    And rest for me is never found;
    The sobbing dirges of distress
    Are more than songs of happiness;
    The shadows of despairing doom
        Condemn to-day and curse to-morrow,
    And muffled terrors fill the gloom
        Which offers anguish to my sorrow.

    But hope, O, heart, for future weal!
    The waters rest beyond the wheel;
    So life may sing when toil is done
    And all its battles lost or won.
    There lives a sweeter music there,
        Of gentle and melodious measure,
    Where weeping never comes and where
        The ages perish into pleasure.