A VETERAN

In his niche in the hall, the old clock stands, But hushed is his voice, and still are his hands. He ceased from his labours long years ago, And he’s only a “pensioner” now, you know. He did his duty as long as he could, For a brave heart beat in his breast of wood, And you could depend on all he said Till age, at last, turned him queer in the head. With a visor of glass o’er his grim old face, In his armour,—a straight, stiff, oaken case, He “stands at ease” in his sentry box, And leaves time-telling to younger clocks.