And hear thy busy heart beat on.

Come, tell old tales to me:

Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity.

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 unuttered 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, incense-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,

Robeth an angel, when the mortal dies.

Thy quick vibrations caught

The cradled infant's ear,

And while it scann'd thy face with curious fear,
Thou did'st awake the new-born thought,
Peering through the humid eye,
Like star-beam in a misty sky;

Though the nurse, standing still more near,
Mark'd but the body's growing wealth,
And praised that fair machine of clay,
Working in mystery and health
Its wondrous way.

Thy voice was like a knell,
Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell,
When stranger-feet came gathering slow

To see the master of the mansion borne
To that last home, the narrow and the low,
From whence is no return.

A sluggard wert thou to the impatient breast, Of watching lover, or long-parted wife, Counting each moment while the day unblest, Like wounded snake, its length did draw;

And blaming thee, as if the strife

Of wild emotion should have been thy law,
When thou wert pledg'd in amity sublime,

To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time.

Glad signal thou hast given

For the gay bridal, when with flower-wreath'd hair,
And flushing cheek, the youthful pair
Stand near the priest with reverent air,
Dreaming that earth is heaven:-

And thou hast heralded with joyance fair
The green-wreathed Christmas, and that other feast,
With which the hard lot of colonial care
The pilgrim-sire besprinkled; saving well,
The golden pumpkin, and the fatted beast,
And the rich apple, with its luscious swell,
Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o'er,
He greets his children at his humble door,
Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard,

As, gathering from their distant home,

To knit their gladden'd hearts in love they come,

Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father's board.

Thou hast outlived thy maker, ancient clock! He in his cold grave sleeps; but thy slight wheels Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock, While o'er his name oblivion steals.

O Man! so prodigal of pride and praise, Thy works survive thee-dead machines perform Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the wormHow dar'st thou sport with Time, while he

Plunges thee darkly in Eternity?

Haste! ere its awful wave engulfs thy form,

And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the

storm.

TO A SHRED OF LINEN.

WOULD they swept cleaner!

Here's a littering shred

Of linen left behind a vile reproach
To all good housewifery. Right glad am I,
That no neat lady, train'd in ancient times
Of pudding-making, and of sampler-work,
And speckless sanctity of household care,
Hath happened here, to spy thee. She, no doubt,
Keen looking through her spectacles, would say,
"This comes of reading books :"—or some spruce beau,
Essenc'd and lily-handed, had he chanc'd

To scan thy slight superfices, 'twould be
"This comes of writing poetry."-Well-well-
Come forth-offender!-hast thou aught to say?
Canst thou by merry thought, or quaint conceit,
Repay this risk, that I have run for thee?

-Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself

Into thine elements. I see the stalk

And bright, blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread That fertile land, where mighty Moses stretch'd