The Old School Clock.
Old memories rush o'er my mind just now
Of faces and friends of the past;
Of that happy time when life's dream was all bright,
E'er the clear sky of youth was o'ercast.
Very dear are those mem'ries,—they've clung round my heart.
And bravely withstood time's rude shock;
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now
Than the face of the Old School Clock.
'Twas a quaint old clock with a quaint old face,
And great iron weights and chain;
It stopped when it liked,—and before it struck
It creaked as if 'twere in pain;
It had seen many years, and it seemed to say,
—"I'm one of the real old stock,"
To the youthful fry, who with reverence looked
On the face of the Old School Clock.
How many a time have I labored to sketch
That yellow and time-honored face,
With its basket of flowers, its figures and hands,
And the weights and the chains in their place!
How oft have I gazed with admiring eye.
As I sat on the wooden block.
And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things
That were inside that Old School Clock!
What a terrible frown did the old clock wear
To the truant, who timidly cast
An anxious eye on those merciless hands,
That for him had been moving too fast!
But it lingered not long, for it loved to smile
On the thoughtless, noisy flock,
And it creaked and whirred and struck with glee,—
Did that genial, good-humored old clock.
Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled
With the world, its cares and ways.
When again I stood in that little school
Where I passed my boyhood's days.
My old friend was gone! and there hung a thing
That my sorrow seemed to mock.
As I gazed with a tear and a softened heart
At a new-fashioned German clock.
'Twas a gaudy thing with bright-painted sides,
And it looked with insolent stare
On the desks and the seats and oh everything old
And I thought of the friendly air—
Of the face that I missed, with its weights and chains,—
All gone to the auctioneer's block:
'Tis a thing of the past,—never more shall I see
But in mem'ry that Old School Clock.
'Tis the way of the world: old friends pass away.
And fresh faces arise in their stead;
But still 'mid the din and the bustle of life
We cherish fond thoughts of the dead.
Yes, dear are those memories—they’ve cling round my heart,
And bravely withstand Time's rude shock;
But not one is more dear or more hallowed to me
Than the face of that Old School Clock.
The Boyne.
There are few, if any, amongst the beautiful scenes of our beautiful island that present a fairer picture than the valley of the Boyne; and its rarest beauty lies in that part which history has made famous. In this sketch the writer does not intend to sketch the "ill-fated river" along its whole course, but, beginning at Slane, merely to follow its windings to the sea below Drogheda. No justice could be done to the noble river in such a brief sketch as this must be, were the attempt made to show its beauties as it winds along through the rich rolling valleys of Meath. At Slane, then, we begin. It is a spot full of romantic as well as historic interest. On a noble lawn, sweeping up from the river, stands Slane Castle, the seat of the Marquis of Conyngham,—one of those grand old battlemented structures that bring back to the mind the days of mail-clad knights of tournament and chivalry. High over the river it rises in its pride, and its grey massive outlines show clear and sharp against the dark background of wood that lines the opposite side. Then sheer from the water’s edge rises Beauparc wood, spreading a dark shadow over the river beneath. Above the little town rises the celebrated hill of Slane, commanding an extensive view all round; and on its summit is the hoary ivy-clad ruins of an old Abbey, the tower of which stands yet with a broken winding stone stairs winding to the top. It is neither easy nor safe to attempt the ascent, but they who brave the toil and the danger are amply repaid for their toil and trouble. To the hill of Slane, it was that Saint Patrick proceeded, after landing at Colp below Drogheda: here on its summit he boldly lighted his fire on the night when pagan superstition commanded, under pain of death, that all fires should be extinguished with the exception of that of the
