THE OLD CLOCK by ELIZA COOK

Clock of the household, the sound of thy bell
Tells the hour, and to many 'tis all thou canst tell;
But to me thou canst preach with the tongue of a sage,
And whisper old tales from life's earliest page.
Thou bringest back visions of heart-bounding times,
When thy midnight stroke chorused the loud-carolled chimes;
When our Christmas was noted for festival mirth,
And the merry New Year had a boisterous birth.

Thou hast broke on my ear through the dead of the night,
Till my spirit, out-wearied, has prayed for the light;
When thy echoing tone and a mother's faint breath,
Seemed the sepulchre tidings that whispered of death.
I have listened to thee, when my own pillowed brow
Was wild in its throbbing and deep in its glow;
When the madness of fever, and anguish of pain,
Left a doubt if I ever should hear thee again.

Thou hast always been nigh: thou hast looked upon all,
On the birth -- on the bridal -- the cradle -- and pall;
To the infant at play and the sire turning gray,
Thou hast spoken the warning of "passing away."
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 chime in the room,
When I, the forgotten one, sleep in the tomb!

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