Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 7, Issue 378, 21 May 1866, Page 1

Select Poetry.

THE OLD WHEEL IN THE MILL. SN the silence of the evening, When the snn has gone to rest, And left its rosiest glory On the river’s tranquil breast O’er the crumbling bridge 1 wander, Spanning low the limpid rill, Audi listen to the turning Of the old wheel in the mill. Then I watch the water bubble, See it struggle from the arch Of the old mill, quaint and mouldering. Watch the waves in circles march. And those waves seem but the symbols Of man’s labors day by day; Tor their power is lost as quickly, And they pass as soon away. On that bridge I pause and wonder How poor human nature fares; How it toils sublime in sorrow, And what noble deeds it dares. How it works and bravely suffers, With a never flagging will, Like the waves that gush and struggle. From the old arch of the mill. When the old wheel is silent, I am linked unto the scene; Hot a wrinkle scars the water, O'er whose breast night’s jewels lean. And the blue sky filled with beauty, On the rill a lustre throws, While the pale moon through the cloudlets, Opens softiy as a rose. And those moments are the treasures, Given by the hand of Time, Teaching us that ’mid our troubles, Pictures dawn of the sublime, — And that life has woes and sorrows, Only sent to fill the mind, With unworded love and reverence. For the peace we sometimes find. —From Lyrical Fancies.