THE OLD FAMILY CLOCK. 119
Thou hast good store, I trow,
For laughing and for weeping ; Things very strange to know,
And none the worse for keeping. Soft tales have lovers told
Into the thrilling ear, Till midnight's witching hour waxed old, Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near,
In thy sly corner hid sublime, With thy " tick, tick," to warn how Time
Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine, Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine.
The un uttered hopes and fears, The deep-drawn rapturous tears Of young paternity, Were chronicled by thee ; The nursling's first faint cry,
Which, from a bright-haired girl of dance and song, The idol, inceuse-fed of an adoring throng, Did make a mother with her quenchless eyes Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories,
As Death's sharp ministry Maketh an angel when the mortal dies.
Thy quick vibrations caught
The cradled infant's ear,
And while it marked thy face with curious fear, Thou didst awake the new-born thought,
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