Little Chings.

SCORN not the slightest word or deed, Nor deem it void of power;

There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed, Waiting its natal hour.

A whispered word may touch the heart,
And call it back to life;

A look of love bid sin depart,
And still unholy strife.

No act falls fruitless; none can tell
How vast its power may be,

Nor what results enfolded dwell
Within it, silently.

Work, and despair not; give thy mite,

Nor care how small it be;

God is with all that serve the right,
The holy, true, and free!

The Old Clock.

BY ELIZA COOK.

CLOCK of the household! few creatures could trace
Aught worthy a song in thy dust-covered 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 a tale from life's earliest page; The long night of sorrow, the short span of glee, All my chequers of fate have been witnessed by

thee.

They say, my first breathings of infant delight Were bestowed on the "dickey birds," gilded and bright,

Which shone forth on thy case,-that the cake, or the toy,

Ne'er illumined mine eyes with such beamings of

joy.

56

THE OLD CLOCK.

Full well I remember with wonder profound,

What caused thee to tick and thy hands to go round, Till I watched a safe moment, and mounted the

chair,

Intent to discover the why and the where.

I revelled in ruin, 'mid wheels, weights, and springs, What sport for the fingers, what glorious things! No doubt I gained something of knowledge; but lo! Full soon 'twas declared the old clock wouldn't go.

The culprit was seized, but all punishment vain,— 'Twas 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" and "I shan't," had insured my disgrace;

Where my storm of defiance might wear itself out, Till the happy laugh banished the frown and the pout.

When a playmate was coming, how often my eye
Would greet thee, to see if the moment was nigh;
And impatiently fancied I never had found
Thy hand such a laggard in travelling round.

THE OLD CLOCK.

57

Thou bringest back visions of heart-bounding times, When the midnight hour chorused the rude carol

rhymes;

When our Christmas was noted for festival mirth, And the merry New Year had a boisterous mirth.

I remember the station thou hadst in the hall, Where the holly and mistletoe decked the rough wall,

Where we mocked at thy voice, till the herald of day Peeped over the hills in his mantle of gray.

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 recoiled, and my heart has turned

sick.

I have sighed back to thee, as I noiselessly crept To the close-curtained bed, where a dying one slept,

When thy echoing stroke, and a mother's faint breath,

Seemed the sepulchre tidings that whispered of death.

58

THE OLD CLOCK.

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 looked upon. all,

On the birth, on the bridal, the cradle and pall;
To the infant at play, and sire turning gray,
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 marked with the 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.