400 SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



No longer the spectral miller 



At his onerous post is found ; 

 From his haunts he's missed, he's ground his grist, 



And the miller's grist is ground. 

 Well toled, they say, was his grist work, 



Well told were the yarns he spun. 

 Well tolled was the bell at his funeral 



After his work was done. 



And now that mill is standing 



Cheerless and silent and old. 

 Owls and bats through the windows 



Are flying fearless and bold. 

 Time and the rats are gnawing 



At rafter and beam and floor ; 

 And soon the old mill, so silent and still. 



Will crumble to rise no more. 



Oh ! what is the world but a grist-mill ? 



Where Right is ground down by Power ; 

 Where Fashion is grinding its minions 



Into very indifferent flour. 

 Where Vice is crushing out Virtue, 



And the Rich grind down the Poor. 

 Where grists of Cares and Hopes and Fears 



Pass in and out at the door ! 



Oh, what is Life but a mill-stone ? 



Turning round once each day ; 

 Crushing us, tearing us, grinding us, 



Slowly but surely away. 

 Grimly, remorselessly gliding, 



Stilling the panting breath ; 

 Who is that ghastly miller? 



Who but the scarecrow — Death ? 



