412 SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



Thick sown with briars and tangled weed, 



And sedge grass waving rank, 

 The head-race winds in dim outline 



Along the meadow bank. 

 Till crawling 'neath the turnpike road 



It nears the ruined mill, 

 With roof-tree sunken to the leaves, 



With voiceless wheels and still. 



Its forebay sunken in the mud, 



Its walls but crumbling stone, 

 Its timber mouldering to decay. 



Its log-yard weed-o'ergrowrl. 

 Yet fancy needs but sway its wand, 



When full of busy life 

 The old-time scenes start up again 



With ringing music rife. 



Again upon the brimful race 



The willow branches play ; 

 Again the dripping mill-wheel flings 



Aside the foaming spray. 

 Again I hear the rag-wheel's grate. 



And hear the rattling cog. 

 And see the rising saw-teeth send 



The white dust o'er the log. 



I see the sawyer crouching stand 



With keen and single eye — 

 The other shut, that he may see 



If the mill-saw runs awry. 

 With swinging axe he " sculps " anon 



The dirt from off the bark; 

 He hea.rs the saw a " hinge-hook " strike, 



With eyebrows frowning dark. 



