THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, 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,— "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, Never-forever!" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; But, like the skeleton at the feast, Never-forever!" There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 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; And in the hush that followed the prayer, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" All are scattered now and fled, Never-forever!" Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear, Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] "MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN" THREE words fall sweetly on my soul, Dear Mother!-ne'er shall I forget Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile; And like a bird that from the flowers, Turns back in childhood's Home to rest; And while to one engulfing grave By Time's swift tide we're driven, William Goldsmith Brown [1812-1906] THE HERO My hero is na decked wi' gowd, In war he hasna met. He has nae siller in his pouch, Nae menials at his ca'; The proud o' earth frae him would turn, And bid him stand awa', His coat is hame-spun hodden-gray, His shoon are clouted sair, His garments, maist unhero-like, Are a' the waur o' wear: His limbs are strong-his shoulders broad, He's rough without, but sound within; He toils at e'en, he toils at morn, His wark is never through; A coming life o' weary toil Is ever in his view. But on he trudges, keeping aye A stout heart to the brae, And proud to be an honest man Until his dying day. His hame a hame o' happiness And monie a nameless dwelling-place Like his we still may see. His happy altar-hearth so bright Is ever bleezing there; And cheerfu' faces round it set Are an unending prayer. The poor man in his humble hame, Like God, who dwells aboon, Sae joyfu' late and soon. His toil is sair, his toil is lang; Go, mock at conquerors and kings! Go, tell the painted butterflies To kneel them down and pray! Go, stand erect in manhood's pride, Then come, and to my hero bend Upon the grass your knee! Robert Nicoll [1814-1837] THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The short and simple annals of the poor.-GRAY My loved, my honored, much-respected friend! My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, The expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, |