The Old Clock on the Stairs. (A Ballad of Broadmoor.)

HERE standeth in my entrance-hall A grim grandfather’s clock, That holds my inmost heart in thrall, And gives it many a shock. It has a cruel, cunning face, And two long hands that glide Like demon fates who run a race For ever by my side. So day by day, and year by year, It strikes a ceaseless knell, For all that to my heart was dear, For all I loved so well. It tolls for youth and love and trust, For joys and pleasures fled, For dreams long gathered to the dust, For hopes long cold and dead. In mournful beats it ticks away The moments of my span, And makes me, when I would be gay, A miserable man. No other sound the silence breaks, Save when with hollow boom Its sad sepulchral voice awakes The echoes of the tomb. It shall not tick my life away— Its raven croak no more Shall tell me that I’m old and gray And all my dreams are o’er! My fist is through its gloomy face, I wring its iron neck— Thus! thus! I smash its heartless case, And dance upon the wreck. Hurrah, hurrah! for hope returns, The mocking voice is still; Within my breast ambition burns, And all my pulses thrill. That fateful tongue, thank God, I miss, I know not how time flies; And oh, where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise.