Classic Poem

Stands the clock within the hall,
Like a monk against the wall,
Like a hooded monk with eyes
Owl-like, spectral, solemn, wise,
In whose sockets, moon and sun,
Mimic phase and season run;
While, beneath the face austere,
" Going! Gone! Going! Gone! "
Time, the ruthless Auctioneer,
Sells the moments one by one;
Moments all too cheaply sold,
Save to Love, for lavished gold,
Save to crime, with dagger bold!
Four and twenty times a day
Step the Morrice-dancers gay,

From their tire-room in the clock,
At the hour's impatient knock;
Wind in courteous rigadoon,
Wind in cadence with the tune,
Vanish with its blithsome strain,
" Going! Gone! Going! Gone! "
Time his hammer raps again,
Hark! A groan! Hark! A groan!
Groan for that bright hour just past,
Breathed by one would hold it fast,
For the next shall be his last!

Through the western oriel fall
Sunset glories in the hall.
Thus at eve they ever pour
Rainbowed rapture on the floor.
Now the Virgin's lips are pressed
On yon cherub's sculptured rest,
Now ascends a crimson stain
From the storied window-pane,
Till the light of evening skies
Glimmers in those sleepless eyes.

Drink, poor monk, the lingering rays,
" Going! Gone! Going! Gone! "
Brief their lustre! Brief thy gaze
On the sun! Day is done!

Pensive, in the twilight hour,
Sits the maiden in her bower;
Broods the felon in his tower
One — the noon a bride shall see!
One — at noon shall cease to be!