The Life-Clock

There is a little mystic clock,
No human eye hath seen,
That beateth on,—and beateth on,—
From morning until e’en.
And when the soul is wrapped in sleep,
All silent and alone,
It ticks and ticks the livelong night,
And never runneth down.
Oh! wondrous is that work of art,
Which knells the passing hour;
But art ne’er formed, nor mind conceived,
The life-clock’s magic power.
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Not set in gold, nor decked with gems,
By wealth and pride possessed;
But rich or poor, or high or low,
Each bears it in his breast.
Such is the clock that measures life,—
Of flesh and spirit blended,—
And thus ’t will run within the breast,
Till that strange life is ended.

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