 | Poems |  |
182
THE WATCH.
O silent is the foot of Time
And noiseless his eternal way,
From Infancy to Manhood's prime,
And feeble Age's slow decay!
The year obeys the Solar sway;
The changing seasons mark his power;
And light and darkness rule the day;
Whilst loud-ton'd clocks proclaim the hour.
And noiseless his eternal way,
From Infancy to Manhood's prime,
And feeble Age's slow decay!
The year obeys the Solar sway;
The changing seasons mark his power;
And light and darkness rule the day;
Whilst loud-ton'd clocks proclaim the hour.
183
But life is fickle as the wind;
And bliss and woe divide the year;
Change, still the Seasons make and find;
Nor days nor hours unmix'd appear.
We dare not Hope's fair fabric rear,
Nor build beyond this little span:
The watch that marks the moment here,
Counts all of bliss that's given to Man.
And bliss and woe divide the year;
Change, still the Seasons make and find;
Nor days nor hours unmix'd appear.
We dare not Hope's fair fabric rear,
Nor build beyond this little span:
The watch that marks the moment here,
Counts all of bliss that's given to Man.
Thou little watch, with stilly voice,
How boundless is thy silent power!
Thou call'st the happy to rejoice;
And point'st to misery's eye the hour:
The sentenc'd wretch in lonely tower
Reads in thy face that death's at hand;
And he enthron'd in princely bower,
Who doom'd that death, owns thy command.
How boundless is thy silent power!
Thou call'st the happy to rejoice;
And point'st to misery's eye the hour:
The sentenc'd wretch in lonely tower
Reads in thy face that death's at hand;
And he enthron'd in princely bower,
Who doom'd that death, owns thy command.
184
The exile torn from every tie,
From children, wife, and native land,
Feels at thy sight stern misery fly;
It bears him to his lovely strand:
There was a cherub boy would stand
And stay his cry, thy voice to hear;
Would reach for thee his rosy hand,
And smile and crow to see thee near.
From children, wife, and native land,
Feels at thy sight stern misery fly;
It bears him to his lovely strand:
There was a cherub boy would stand
And stay his cry, thy voice to hear;
Would reach for thee his rosy hand,
And smile and crow to see thee near.
Blest in the Sailor's happy home,
Thou feel'st his faithful partner's sigh;
More blest with him the world to roam,
And mark the fond tear in his eye.
The Lover chides thee lingering by,
When absent from the maid he loves;
When basking in her sunny eye,
Unmark'd, unfelt, thy quick hand moves.
Thou feel'st his faithful partner's sigh;
More blest with him the world to roam,
And mark the fond tear in his eye.
The Lover chides thee lingering by,
When absent from the maid he loves;
When basking in her sunny eye,
Unmark'd, unfelt, thy quick hand moves.
185
The prisoner, doom'd to waste his days
In dungeon damp, or cheerless cell,
When time has quench'd hope's lambent rays
And memory but on wrongs can dwell;—
Ev'n in despair he feels thy spell:
It links him still to human kind,
Mid one dull calm of change to tell;—
Though vain as colors to the blind!
In dungeon damp, or cheerless cell,
When time has quench'd hope's lambent rays
And memory but on wrongs can dwell;—
Ev'n in despair he feels thy spell:
It links him still to human kind,
Mid one dull calm of change to tell;—
Though vain as colors to the blind!
Ah, me! how slow the moments creep,
When, watching by the sick man's bed,
The daughter's tears his pillow steep,
Unheard as snow on straw-roof'd shed:
No sounds break on that silence dread,
Save thy low tick and his faint breath;—
Morn comes,—the vital spark is fled!
Thou sound'st on the still couch of death.
When, watching by the sick man's bed,
The daughter's tears his pillow steep,
Unheard as snow on straw-roof'd shed:
No sounds break on that silence dread,
Save thy low tick and his faint breath;—
Morn comes,—the vital spark is fled!
Thou sound'st on the still couch of death.
186
Thou diest not—mischance, neglect,
May clog thy fine machinery;
But care can thy nice springs protect,
And Art repair all injury.
O thou full many a race shalt see,
Like him who form'd thy wonderous frame,
Count their long woes, their transient glee;
Different the kind, th' amount the same.
May clog thy fine machinery;
But care can thy nice springs protect,
And Art repair all injury.
O thou full many a race shalt see,
Like him who form'd thy wonderous frame,
Count their long woes, their transient glee;
Different the kind, th' amount the same.
| Poems | |