THE OLD CLOCK.
And thou bringest back sorrow, for, oh! thou hast been
The companion of many a gloomier scene:
In the dead of the night I have heard thy loud tick,
Till my ear has recoil'd and my heart has turn'd sick.
I have sigh'd back to thee as I noiselessly crept
To the close-curtain'd bed where a dying one slept;
When thy echoing stroke and a mother's faint breath
Seem'd the sepulchre tidings that whisper'd of death.
The companion of many a gloomier scene:
In the dead of the night I have heard thy loud tick,
Till my ear has recoil'd and my heart has turn'd sick.
I have sigh'd back to thee as I noiselessly crept
To the close-curtain'd bed where a dying one slept;
When thy echoing stroke and a mother's faint breath
Seem'd the sepulchre tidings that whisper'd of death.
Clock of the household! thou ne'er hast been thrust
From thy station to dwell amid lumber and dust:
Let fashion prevail and rare changes betide,
Thou wert always preserved with a cherishing pride.
Thou hast ever been nigh, thou hast look'd upon all,—
On the birth, on the bridal, the cradle, and pall;
To the infant at play and the sire turning grey,
Thou hast spoken the warning of "passing away."
From thy station to dwell amid lumber and dust:
Let fashion prevail and rare changes betide,
Thou wert always preserved with a cherishing pride.
Thou hast ever been nigh, thou hast look'd upon all,—
On the birth, on the bridal, the cradle, and pall;
To the infant at play and the sire turning grey,
Thou hast spoken the warning of "passing away."
Clock of the household! I gaze on thee now
With the shadow of thought growing deep on my brow:
For I feel and I know that "the future" has hours
Which will not be mark'd by a dial of flowers.
My race may be run when thy musical chime
Will be still ringing out in the service of time;
And the Clock of the household will shine in the room
When I, the forgotten one, sleep in the tomb.
With the shadow of thought growing deep on my brow:
For I feel and I know that "the future" has hours
Which will not be mark'd by a dial of flowers.
My race may be run when thy musical chime
Will be still ringing out in the service of time;
And the Clock of the household will shine in the room
When I, the forgotten one, sleep in the tomb.
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