THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

123

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,-

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!"

LONGFELLOW.

FOREST SCENES.

127

FOREST SCENES.

THY dells, by wintry currents worn,
Secluded haunts, how dear to me!
From all but Nature's converse borne,
No ear to hear, no eye to see.

Their honour'd leaves the green oaks rear'd
And crown'd the upland's graceful swell;
While answering through the vale was heard
Each distant heifer's tinkling bell.

Hail! greenwood shades, that, stretching far,
Defy e'en Summer's noontide power,
When August in his burning car

Withholds the cloud, withholds the shower.
The deep-toned low from either hill,
Down hazel aisles and arches green

(The herd's rude tracks, from rill to rill),
Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene.

Shaking his matted mane on high,
The gazing colt would raise his head;
Or tim'rous doe would rushing fly,
And leave to me her grassy bed: