THE OLD ANCESTRAL MANSION.

And fancy fluttered on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chained each wondering ear;
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood,
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood:
Oft fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in
its sleep.

Ye household deities! whose guardian eye
Marked each pure thought, ere registered on
high;

Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,

On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-colored chart,
The clock still points its moral to the heart,
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear,
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near:
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time?
That massive beam, with curious carvings
wrought,

Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive
thought;

Those muskets cased with venerable rust; Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their dust,

And breathe the soul of Inspiration round.
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the 'wildered
sight;

Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life-all whisper of the past!
As through the garden's desert paths I rove
What fond illusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest;

And still, with heraldry's rich hues impressed, Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing,

THE OLD CLOCK.

Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme,

57

For five I've given warning;
You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth,
Unless you're up soon in the morning."

Still hourly the clock goes round and round,
With a tone that ceases never;

The bark now silvered by the touch of time; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summer While tears are shed for bright days fled, shade; And the old friends lost forever; Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone seat,

To lure the redbreast from his

lone retreat.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE OLD CLOCK.

Он, the old, old clock of the household stock,

Was the brightest thing and neatest;

Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,

And its chimes rang still the

sweetest.

'Twas a monitor, too, though its words were few,

Yet they lived, though nations altered;

And its voice, still strong, warned old and young,

When the voice of friendship

faltered.

"Tick, tick," it said "quick.
quick to bed,

For ten I've given warning;
Up, up, and go, or else, you know,
You'll never rise soon in the
morning."

A friendly voice was that old, old

clock,

As it stood in the corner smiling,
And blessed the time with a merry chime,
The winter hours beguiling;

But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock,
As it called the daybreak boldly,
When the dawn looked gray on the misty way
And the early air blew coldly;
"Tick. tick" it said-"quick out of bed,

That warmer beat and younger;

Its hands still move, though hands we love
Are clasped on earth no longer!
"Tick, tick," it said "to the churchyard bed,
The grave hath given warning;
Up, up, and rise, and look to the skies,

And prepare for the heavenly morning."