WHAT THE OLD CLOCK SAYS.
Tick, tick, he whispers tales of love
To milkmaid by the bars;
She blushes like the new-blown rose
Beneath the smiling stars.
Tick, tick, the white-haired priest has come.
To join their holy love,
And down from out propitious skies
The angels smile above.
Tick, tick, and smiles a pretty babe
To join them closer yet.
And mothers said from out the heart
Two mates for once are met.
Tick, lick, and now her aged form
Is still at last in death;
A rugged son, a faded sire.
Are mourning 'neath the breath.
Tick, tick, and now two holy graves
Are mouldering side by side.
The bridegroom of her earliest love,
And she, his lovely bride.
Tick, tick, and by two graves at last
The son stands there alone;
The world is large, but crowds of men
Heed not his piteous moan.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, and now
The graves are one,—two,—three!
The same sweet skies are smiling yet
On flower and weed and lea.
The old clock still is ticking on
Beside the great hall door.
The same old face, tho' faded some.
We saw in days of yore.
Its solemn tick more solemn still,
Does softly say to all:
"From life to death we all must go,
The fairest flower will fall!"
Claremont, N. H., July 23, 1883.
