Clock of the household! few creatures would trace Aught worthy a song in thy dust-cover'd face; The sight of thy hands and the sound of thy bell Tell the hour, and to many 'tis all thou canst tell. But to me thou canst preach with the tongue of a sage, Thou canst tell me old tales from life's earliest page; The long night of sorrow, the short span of glee— All my chequers of fate have been witness'd by thee.
They say my first breathings of infant delight Were bestow'd on the "dicky birds," gilded and bright, Which shone forth on thy case, that the cake or the toy Ne'er illumined my eyes with such beamings of joy. Full well I remember my wonder profound— What caused thee to tick and thy hands to move round, Till I watch'd a safe moment and mounted the chair, Intent to discover the why and the where.
I revell'd in ruin 'mid wheels, weights, and springs; What sport for the fingers, what glorious things! No doubt I gain'd something of knowledge, but lo! Full soon 'twas declared "the old clock didn't go." The culprit was seized, but all punishment vain; I was caught at such doings again and again. 'Twas the favourite mischief, and nothing would cure, Till a lock kept the pendulum sacred and sure.
The corner thou stood'st in was always my place, When "I shall" or "I sha'n't" had insured my disgrace; Where my storm of defiance might wear itself out, Till the happy laugh banish'd the frown and the pout. When a playmate was coming, how often my eye Would greet thee to see if the moment were nigh; And impatiently fancied I never had found Thy hand such a laggard in travelling round.
Thou bringest back visions of heart-bounding times, When thy midnight hour chorus'd the rude carol rhymes; When our Christmas was noted for festival mirth, And the merry New Year had a boisterous birth. I remember the station thou hadst in the hall, Where the holly and mistletoe deck'd the rough wall; Where we mock'd at thy voice till the herald of day Peep'd over the hills in his mantle of grey.
And thou bringest back sorrow, for, oh! thou hast been The companion of many a gloomier scene: In the dead of the night I have heard thy loud tick, Till my ear has recoil'd and my heart has turn'd sick. I have sigh'd back to thee as I noiselessly crept To the close-curtain'd bed where a dying one slept; When thy echoing stroke and a mother's faint breath Seem'd the sepulchre tidings that whisper'd of death.
Clock of the household! thou ne'er hast been thrust From thy station to dwell amid lumber and dust: Let fashion prevail and rare changes betide, Thou wert always preserved with a cherishing pride. Thou hast ever been nigh, thou hast look'd upon all,— On the birth, on the bridal, the cradle, and pall; To the infant at play and the sire turning grey, Thou hast spoken the warning of "passing away."
Clock of the household! I gaze on thee now With the shadow of thought growing deep on my brow: For I feel and I know that "the future" has hours Which will not be mark'd by a dial of flowers. My race may be run when thy musical chime Will be still ringing out in the service of time; And the Clock of the household will shine in the room When I, the forgotten one, sleep in the tomb.
