Poems (Cook)/Song of Old Time
SONG OF OLD TIME.
I wear not the purple of earth-born kings,Nor the stately ermine of lordly things;But monarch and courtier, though great they be,Must fall from their glory and bend to me.My sceptre is gemless; yet who can sayThey will not come under its mighty sway?Ye may learn who I am,—there's the passing chime.And the dial to herald me—Old King Time!
Softly I creep, like a thief in the night,After cheeks all blooming and eyes all light;My steps are seen on the patriarch's brow,In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow.Who laugh at my power? the young and the gay:But they dream not how closely I track their way.Wait till their first bright sands have run,And they will not smile at what Time hath done.
I eat through treasures with moth and rust;I lay the gorgeous palace in dust;I make the shell-proof tower my own,And break the battlement, stone from stone.Work on at your cities and temples, proud Man,Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can;But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall,And Time, Old Time, will be king, after all.