S The Old Clock on the Stairs. OMEWHAT back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; And, from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Half way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, Like a monk who, under his cloak, By day its voice is low and light; Never-forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; This night his weekly moil is at an end, At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin stacher thro', His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile. The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does all his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new: The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night! Implore his counsel and assisting might: [aright!" They never sought in vain that sought the Lord But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door, Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny s e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jennie hafflins is afraid to speak; [rake. Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love! where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare"If heav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that sents the ev'ning gale!" But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin'lint was i' the bell. The cheerful supper done, wi' serious face, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive" Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beats the heav'nward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was a friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire: How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How He, who lone in Patmus banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere, Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in the book of life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad. Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; "An honest man's the noblest work of God:" And certes in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; HE farmer sat in his easy chair, THE Smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife, with busy care, Was clearing the dinner away; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, On her grandfather's knee, was catching flies. The old man laid his hand on her head, As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye. The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, A Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition. ND thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow These temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous. Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; Thou hast a tongue,-come let us hear its tune; Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts of disembodied creatures, Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden In Mammon's statue, which at sunrise played? Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass; I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : Thou couldst develop-if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seenHow the world looked when it was fresh and young, And the great deluge still had left it green; Or was it then so old that history's pages Contained no record of its early ages. |