The Old Clock

Momento of the gonc-by hours, Doet thon reoa'l ilone the past? Why Btand'st tli.m silent 'midst these towcrs, Whea time ftill flics bo fast ? Where are the bands in nioments flcd, That marked those moments as üiey flew, To generattona of the drad, hn turned on thee thcir view. To wateh and gi-Dct the appointed timo Of every empty dream of joy, Or wait in agony the chime Whlch might such drcams destroy 1 To thee the cager eye was turneil, Of prido, of polic;, and iovcr, And love's own longüfl heart has burned To hear thee mark his hour. Pleasure and pastime, gricf and cure, Have heard thee chime soxne chango of lot , While thc dull car of cold despair Has heard, t;ut marked thee not. And Ilion art silfnt now, and still, wliile rouiiil thy mystic dial runs The legend oí man's honrs- tbough i", As thon, he marks the sun- Tliose roüing suns- those rolling slius, Unchronicled by both, goon; Thor.gu still each comnients as it nms, Till man's brief day ba done. Hali's lie.irt, too. like thy face ! on it Records of passing hours may stand, Bnt stand numarked by movcment fit, By chimes or pointing hand. O. dial ! art thou r.-.ised on high To speak reproach f or lif e'8 abuse ? Or give to eager hope thc lie t Or tell Tiine's future use t TUe future ! Thou has nmiaht to do With it ! Tue solemn past alone ís that whereon thy comments go, Fit gravcstoueB of hours gone ! The future ! Yes ! at least to me Thus plaiuly, thus, thy moral stands- " Good deods"mark hours ! Lct not life be A dial without hands.