 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
309
THE SEXTON OF TIME.
The windows were fastened, and bolted the door—
One mouldering brand threw faint light on the floor,
When, followed by twelve heavy beats of the clock,
A spirit unseen at my casement did knock;
“Who is here?—who is here?”—with a shudder I cried,
And a voice, hollow-toned like the night-wind, replied:
One mouldering brand threw faint light on the floor,
When, followed by twelve heavy beats of the clock,
A spirit unseen at my casement did knock;
“Who is here?—who is here?”—with a shudder I cried,
And a voice, hollow-toned like the night-wind, replied:
“The sad, withered heart of that traveller old,
The gray-headed Year is now silent and cold;
On a pallet of straw wan and wasted he lies,
No warmth in his veins, and no light in his eyes;
I come, hither called, moody Sexton of Time!
From my cavernous home in a mystical clime.
The gray-headed Year is now silent and cold;
On a pallet of straw wan and wasted he lies,
No warmth in his veins, and no light in his eyes;
I come, hither called, moody Sexton of Time!
From my cavernous home in a mystical clime.
“A king, many months, did he rule in the land,
And the sceptre of empire befitted his hand;
In June his proud palace with azure was hung—
Through its picturesque halls witching melody rung—
Rich emerald carpet each floor overspread,
Embroidered with blossoms, to soften the tread.
And the sceptre of empire befitted his hand;
In June his proud palace with azure was hung—
Through its picturesque halls witching melody rung—
Rich emerald carpet each floor overspread,
Embroidered with blossoms, to soften the tread.
“Oh! where shall I trench a receptacle deep;
Where find for the pilgrim a chamber of sleep!
Oh! not by the wayside, for over his grave
A banner of white would the storm-demon wave,
And frolicsome steeds, ringing bells on the blast,
While Mirth held the reins, would be hurrying past.
Where find for the pilgrim a chamber of sleep!
Oh! not by the wayside, for over his grave
A banner of white would the storm-demon wave,
And frolicsome steeds, ringing bells on the blast,
While Mirth held the reins, would be hurrying past.
“Oh! not in the woods would I build him a tomb—
Gone, gone are their crowns, and no violets bloom;
In their desolate depths not a warbler is seen,
The brook hath no murmur—its margin no green,
And the sobbing of winds, and the creaking of boughs,
From rest might the heart-broken slumberer rouse.
Gone, gone are their crowns, and no violets bloom;
In their desolate depths not a warbler is seen,
The brook hath no murmur—its margin no green,
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From rest might the heart-broken slumberer rouse.
“He dropped, causing deeper the verdure to grow,
Bright dew where the lost and the lovely lie low,
And sent golden sunshine, and pattering showers,
While bright grew the desolate grave-yard with flowers,
But earth, once so fair by his agency made,
Will furnish no cell where his bones may be laid.
Bright dew where the lost and the lovely lie low,
And sent golden sunshine, and pattering showers,
While bright grew the desolate grave-yard with flowers,
But earth, once so fair by his agency made,
Will furnish no cell where his bones may be laid.
“Dark bearers will come at the blast of my horn:
His corse shall be gently to Shadow-Land borne,
And the Sexton of Time will a sepulchre build
In its valley by winter, the tyrant, unchilled;
While the newly-crowned Year, a wild rioter, laughs
At the wassailing board, and a full bumper quaffs.
His corse shall be gently to Shadow-Land borne,
And the Sexton of Time will a sepulchre build
In its valley by winter, the tyrant, unchilled;
While the newly-crowned Year, a wild rioter, laughs
At the wassailing board, and a full bumper quaffs.
“Revel on!—revel on! with the youthful and gay.
Proud heir of the fallen! thy locks shall grow gray,
Though the days of thy life inexhaustible seem,
They will melt like the dew—they will pass like a dream;
From spring-time to winter the journey is brief,
And the fields of delight stretch to deserts of grief!”
Proud heir of the fallen! thy locks shall grow gray,
Though the days of thy life inexhaustible seem,
They will melt like the dew—they will pass like a dream;
From spring-time to winter the journey is brief,
And the fields of delight stretch to deserts of grief!”
The voice died away, and a trumpet was blown—
I looked from my window in terror, I own,
And phantom-like forms, by the snow-light, beheld,
A dim figure leading them, hoary with eld,
The funeral it seemed of the friendless Old Year,
For borne, in their midst, was a shadowy bier.
I looked from my window in terror, I own,
And phantom-like forms, by the snow-light, beheld,
A dim figure leading them, hoary with eld,
The funeral it seemed of the friendless Old Year,
For borne, in their midst, was a shadowy bier.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |