THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar trees their shadows throw: Never-forever!" Halfway up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, With sorrowful voice to all who pass, Forever-never! Never-forever!" By day its voice is low and light; And seems to say, at each chamber-door, Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, Never-forever!" In that mansion used to be His great fires up the chimney roar'd; Never-forever!" There groups of merry children play'd, Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— "Forever-never! Never-forever!" From that chamber, clothed in white, The dead lay in his shroud of snow; "Forever-never! Never-forever!" All are scatter'd now and fled, Never-forever!" Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, "Forever-never! Never-forever! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFellow. LOOK ALOFT. IN the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale part, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are array'd, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart, 66 Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom." And, O! when death comes in his terrors to cast And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart! JONATHAN Lawrence. THE WAYSIDE WELL. He stopped at the wayside well, Where the water was cool and deep; There were feathery ferns 'twixt the mossy stones, And gray was the old well-sweep. He left his carriage alone, Nor could coachman or footman tell Why the master stopped in the dusty road He swayed with his gloved hands The well-sweep, creaking and slow, While from seam and scar in the bucket's side The water plashed back below. He lifted it to the curb, And bent to the bucket's brim; No furrows of time or care had marked The face that looked back at him. He saw but a farmer's boy As he stooped o'er the brim to drink, And ruddy and tanned was the laughing face The eyes were sunny and clear, And the brow undimmed by care, While from under the rim of the old straw hat Strayed curls of chestnut hair. He turned away with a sigh ; Nor could footman or coachman tell Why the master stopped in his ride that day To drink at the wayside well. WALTER Learned. |