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.