A CAROL FOR TIME.
Fold thy wing, Father Time, I've a carol for thee—
In thy gaunt, grisly form, nothing frightful I see.
Swing thy sharp-cutting scythe, let thy golden sands run—
Shall the toil-worn be sad that his task is half done?
In thy gaunt, grisly form, nothing frightful I see.
Swing thy sharp-cutting scythe, let thy golden sands run—
Shall the toil-worn be sad that his task is half done?
I chide not the years, though they fade from my sight,
Like a vision of beauty, a dream of the night;
They are scent-laden flowers, and their honey I sip,
Then I bid them farewell with a smile on my lip.
Like a vision of beauty, a dream of the night;
They are scent-laden flowers, and their honey I sip,
Then I bid them farewell with a smile on my lip.
Not thornless, 'tis true, as in lost Eden's bowers,
In Time's garden blossom the weeks, days, and hours;
But that briars are blessings, experience shows,
And Heaven sends us balm for our wounds and our woes.
In Time's garden blossom the weeks, days, and hours;
But that briars are blessings, experience shows,
And Heaven sends us balm for our wounds and our woes.
What though thou dost furrow the forehead with care,
Twine silvery threads in the glossy brown hair;
Bid the step lose its lightness, the heart be less
It were wisdom to welcome this outward decay.
Twine silvery threads in the glossy brown hair;
Bid the step lose its lightness, the heart be less
It were wisdom to welcome this outward decay.
As Nature's voice pierces its rayless abode,
Bids the chrysalis worm drop its cumbersome load;
So Time calls us forth from our dungeons of clay,
To pour on our darkness the glad light of day.
Bids the chrysalis worm drop its cumbersome load;
So Time calls us forth from our dungeons of clay,
To pour on our darkness the glad light of day.
When a friend breaks his chain, should the captive complain,
Spurn proffer of freedom and country again;
We justly might deem him ungrateful, untrue,
And false to the land where his first breath he drew.
Spurn proffer of freedom and country again;
We justly might deem him ungrateful, untrue,
And false to the land where his first breath he drew.
The storm-beaten mariner, nearing his home,
What recks he how wildly the billows may foam?
Though shattered his vessel and tattered her sail,
With faith in the pilot, he sings in the gale.
What recks he how wildly the billows may foam?
Though shattered his vessel and tattered her sail,
With faith in the pilot, he sings in the gale.
An exile—I'm glad that the months quickly pass,
That each falling sand leaves one less in Time's glass:
With the worm from her prison my spirit would soar—
Speed, Time, waft my bark to Eternity's shore.
That each falling sand leaves one less in Time's glass:
With the worm from her prison my spirit would soar—
Speed, Time, waft my bark to Eternity's shore.
Then hail, Father Time, with thy locks floating free
As waves the gray moss from the tall forest tree;
Life's pathway is gemmed with bright memories rare,
No hand but thine own could have scattered them there.
As waves the gray moss from the tall forest tree;
Life's pathway is gemmed with bright memories rare,
No hand but thine own could have scattered them there.
But bribe him I may not—no, old Father Time
Will not list to my wooing, or stay for my rhyme;
For while tuning my harp, he has borne me along,
Nor folded his wing to give heed to my song.
Will not list to my wooing, or stay for my rhyme;
For while tuning my harp, he has borne me along,
Nor folded his wing to give heed to my song.