 | Illustrated poems by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney |  |
54
THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK.
So here thou art, old friend,
Ready thine aid to lend,
With honest face;
The gilded figures just as bright
Upon thy painted case,
As when I ran with young delight
Their garniture to trace,
And though forbid thy burnish'd robe to touch,
Still gazed with folded hands, admiring long and much.
Ready thine aid to lend,
With honest face;
The gilded figures just as bright
Upon thy painted case,
As when I ran with young delight
Their garniture to trace,
And though forbid thy burnish'd robe to touch,
Still gazed with folded hands, admiring long and much.
But where is she who sate
Near in her elbow-chair,
Teaching with patient care
Life's young beginner, on thy dial plate
To count the winged minutes, fleet and fair,
And mark each hour with deeds of love?
Lo, she hath broke her league with time, and found the rest above.
Thrice welcome, ancient crone!
'Tis sweet to gaze on thee,
And hear thy busy heart beat on.
Come, tell old tales to me:
Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity.
Near in her elbow-chair,
Teaching with patient care
Life's young beginner, on thy dial plate
To count the winged minutes, fleet and fair,
And mark each hour with deeds of love?
Lo, she hath broke her league with time, and found the rest above.
55
'Tis sweet to gaze on thee,
And hear thy busy heart beat on.
Come, tell old tales to me:
Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity.
Thou hast good store, I trow,
For laughing and for weeping,
Things very strange to know,
And none the worse for keeping.
Soft tales have lovers told
Into the thrilling ear,
Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old,
Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near,
In thy sly corner hid sublime,
With thy ‘tick!’ ‘tick!’ to warn how Time
Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine,
Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine.
For laughing and for weeping,
Things very strange to know,
And none the worse for keeping.
Soft tales have lovers told
Into the thrilling ear,
Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old,
Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near,
In thy sly corner hid sublime,
With thy ‘tick!’ ‘tick!’ to warn how Time
Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine,
Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine.
The unutter'd hopes and fears,
The deep-drawn rapturous tears
Of young paternity,
Were chronicled by thee.
The nursling's first faint cry,
Which from a bright-hair'd girl of dance and song,
The idol, incense-fed, of an adoring throng,
Did make a mother, with her quenchless eyes
Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories;
As Death's sharp ministry
Robeth an angel when the mortal dies.
The deep-drawn rapturous tears
Of young paternity,
Were chronicled by thee.
The nursling's first faint cry,
Which from a bright-hair'd girl of dance and song,
The idol, incense-fed, of an adoring throng,
56
Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories;
As Death's sharp ministry
Robeth an angel when the mortal dies.
Thy quick vibrations caught
The cradled infant's ear,
And while it scann'd thy face with curious fear,
Thou didst awake the new-born thought,
Peering through the humid eye,
Like star-beam in a misty sky;
Though the nurse, standing still more near,
Mark'd but the body's growing wealth,
And praised that fair machine of clay,
Working in mystery and health
Its wondrous way.
The cradled infant's ear,
And while it scann'd thy face with curious fear,
Thou didst awake the new-born thought,
Peering through the humid eye,
Like star-beam in a misty sky;
Though the nurse, standing still more near,
Mark'd but the body's growing wealth,
And praised that fair machine of clay,
Working in mystery and health
Its wondrous way.
Thy voice was like a knell,
Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell,
When stranger-feet came gathering slow
To see the master of the mansion borne
To that last home, the narrow and the low,
From whence is no return.
Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell,
When stranger-feet came gathering slow
To see the master of the mansion borne
To that last home, the narrow and the low,
From whence is no return.
A laggard wert thou to the impatient breast
Of watching lover, or long-parted wife,
Counting each moment while the day unblest,
Like wounded snake, its length did draw;
And blaming thee, as if the strife
Of wild emotion should have been thy law,
When thou wert pledged, in amity sublime,
To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time.
Of watching lover, or long-parted wife,
57
Like wounded snake, its length did draw;
And blaming thee, as if the strife
Of wild emotion should have been thy law,
When thou wert pledged, in amity sublime,
To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time.
Glad signal thou hast given
For the gay bridal, when with flower-wreath'd hair
And flushing cheek, the youthful pair
Stand near the priest with reverent air,
Dreaming that earth is heaven:—
And thou hast heralded with joyance fair
The green-wreath'd Christmas, and that other feast
With which the hard lot of colonial care
The pilgrim-sire besprinkled; saving well
The golden pumpkin and the fatted beast,
And round-cheek'd apple, with its luscious swell
Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o'er,
He greets his children at his humble door,
Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard,
As, gathering from their distant home,
To knit their gladden'd hearts in love they come,
Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father's board.
For the gay bridal, when with flower-wreath'd hair
And flushing cheek, the youthful pair
Stand near the priest with reverent air,
Dreaming that earth is heaven:—
And thou hast heralded with joyance fair
The green-wreath'd Christmas, and that other feast
With which the hard lot of colonial care
The pilgrim-sire besprinkled; saving well
The golden pumpkin and the fatted beast,
And round-cheek'd apple, with its luscious swell
Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o'er,
He greets his children at his humble door,
Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard,
As, gathering from their distant home,
To knit their gladden'd hearts in love they come,
Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father's board.
58
Thou hast outlived thy maker, ancient clock!
He in his cold grave sleeps; but thy slight wheels
Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock,
While o'er his name oblivion steals.
O Man! so prodigal of pride and praise,
Thy works survive thee; dead machines perform
Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days
Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the worm.
How darest thou sport with Time, while he
Plunges thee darkly in Eternity?
Haste! ere its awful wave engulf thy form,
And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the storm.
He in his cold grave sleeps; but thy slight wheels
Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock,
While o'er his name oblivion steals.
O Man! so prodigal of pride and praise,
Thy works survive thee; dead machines perform
Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days
Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the worm.
How darest thou sport with Time, while he
Plunges thee darkly in Eternity?
Haste! ere its awful wave engulf thy form,
And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the storm.
| Illustrated poems by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney | |