 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
OLD TIME AND NEW
(Contributed to the first number of the Time Magazine, April, 1879)
How well we know that figure limned
On every almanac's first page,
The beard unshorn, the hair untrimmed,
The gaunt limbs bowed and bent with age;
That well-known glass with sands run out,
That scythe that he was wont to wield
With shriveled arm, which made us doubt
His power in Life's harvest field!
On every almanac's first page,
The beard unshorn, the hair untrimmed,
The gaunt limbs bowed and bent with age;
That well-known glass with sands run out,
That scythe that he was wont to wield
With shriveled arm, which made us doubt
His power in Life's harvest field!
Ah, him we know! But who comes here
Pranked with the fashion of the town?
This springald, who in jest or jeer,
Tries on old Time's well-frosted crown!
Vain is his paint! Youth's freshest down
Through penciled wrinkles shows too soon
The bright mischievous face of Clown,
Beneath the mask of Pantaloon!
Pranked with the fashion of the town?
This springald, who in jest or jeer,
Tries on old Time's well-frosted crown!
Vain is his paint! Youth's freshest down
Through penciled wrinkles shows too soon
The bright mischievous face of Clown,
Beneath the mask of Pantaloon!
A doubtful jest, howe'er well played,
To mock the show of fleeting breath
With youth's light laugh, and masquerade
This gaunt stepbrother of grim Death!
Is this a moralist to teach
The equal fate of small and large?
Peace! Yet—one moment—yield him speech
Before we give the scamp in charge!
To mock the show of fleeting breath
With youth's light laugh, and masquerade
This gaunt stepbrother of grim Death!
Is this a moralist to teach
The equal fate of small and large?
Peace! Yet—one moment—yield him speech
Before we give the scamp in charge!
“I crave no grace from those who dream
Time only was, and from the past
Still draw the wisdom that they deem
Will only live and only last.
Time is not old, as all who 've tried
To kill or cheat him must attest;
And outward symbols cannot hide
The same firm pulse that stirs your breast.
Time only was, and from the past
404
Will only live and only last.
Time is not old, as all who 've tried
To kill or cheat him must attest;
And outward symbols cannot hide
The same firm pulse that stirs your breast.
“The old stock properties you preach
To truer symbols must pay tithe;
M'Cormick's reapers better teach
My truths than your old-fashioned scythe.
The racing ‘Timer's’ slender vane
That marks the quarter seconds pass,
Marks, too, its moral quite as plain
As e'er was drawn in sand through glass.
To truer symbols must pay tithe;
M'Cormick's reapers better teach
My truths than your old-fashioned scythe.
The racing ‘Timer's’ slender vane
That marks the quarter seconds pass,
Marks, too, its moral quite as plain
As e'er was drawn in sand through glass.
“So if I bring in comelier dress
And newer methods, things less new,
I claim that honored name still less
To be consistent than be true.
If mine be not the face that 's cast
In every almanac and rhyme,
Look through them—all that there will last
You 'll find within these leaves of ‘Time!’”
And newer methods, things less new,
I claim that honored name still less
To be consistent than be true.
If mine be not the face that 's cast
In every almanac and rhyme,
Look through them—all that there will last
You 'll find within these leaves of ‘Time!’”
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |