THE SONG OF THE MILL.

[Most of our water-mills have fallen into decay and disuse owing to the
unsuitability of their machinery to grind imported grain. Will the
revival of English grain production bring about a renewal of their
usefulness?]

As by the pool I wandered that lies so clear and still
With tall old trees about it, hard by the silent mill
Whose ancient oaken timbers no longer creak and groan
With roar of wheel and water, and grind of stone on stone,

The idle mill-race slumbered beneath the mouldering wheel,
The pale March sunlight gilded no motes of floating meal,
But the stream went singing onward, went singing by the weir--
And this, or something like it, was the song I seemed to hear:--

"By Teviot, Tees and Avon, by Esk and Ure and Tweed,
Here's many a trusty henchman would rally to your need;
By Itchen, Test and Waveney, by Tamar, Trent and Ouse,
Here's many a loyal servant will help you if you choose.

"Do they no longer need us who needed us of yore?
We stood not still aforetime when England marched to war;
Like those our wind-driven brothers, far seen o'er weald and fen,
We ground the wheat and barley to feed stout Englishmen.

"You call the men of England, their strength, their toil, their gold,
But us you have not summoned, who served your sires of old;
For service high or humble, for tribute great and small,