THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,—

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say, at each chamber-door,— "Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;

But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

There groups of merry children played,

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,-

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,—
"Forever-never!

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,
As music from an angel's lyre,
That bid my spirit spurn control,
And upward to its source aspire;
The sweetest sounds to mortals given
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.

Dear Mother!-ne'er shall I forget

Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile;
Though in the sea of death hath set
Thy star of life, my guide awhile,
Oh, never shall thy form depart
From the bright pictures in my heart.

And like a bird that from the flowers,
Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest,
My spirit, e'en in manhood's hours,

Turns back in childhood's Home to rest;
The cottage, garden, hill, and stream,
Still linger like a pleasant dream.

And while to one engulfing grave

By Time's swift tide we're driven,
How sweet the thought that every wave
But bears us nearer Heaven!
There we shall meet, when life is o'er,
In that blest Home, to part no more.

William Goldsmith Brown [1812-1906]

THE HERO

My hero is na decked wi' gowd,
He has nae glittering state;
Renown upon a field o' blood

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,
His hands were made to plow;

He's rough without, but sound within;
His heart is bauldly true.

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 kindly love may be;

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,
Makes happy hearts around him there,

Sae joyfu' late and soon.

His toil is sair, his toil is lang;
But weary nights and days,
Hame-happiness akin to his-
A hunder-fauld repays.

Go, mock at conquerors and kings!
What happiness give they?

Go, tell the painted butterflies

To kneel them down and pray!

Go, stand erect in manhood's pride,
Be what a man should be,

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,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.-GRAY

My loved, my honored, much-respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end;

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise.
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;

Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The shortening winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose:
The toilworn cotter frae his labor goes,-
This night his weekly moil is at an end,-

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an agèd tree;

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,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.