Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE EIGHT-DAY CLOCK, by ALFRED COCHRANE First Line: The days of bute and grafton's fame Last Line: Sedately to and fro. Subject(s): Clocks; Time | ||||||||
THE days of Bute and Grafton's fame, Of Chatham's waning prime, First heard your sounding gong proclaim Its chronicle of Time; Old days when Dodd confessed his guilt, When Goldsmith drave his quill, And genial gossip Horace built His house on Strawberry Hill. Now with a grave unmeaning face You still repeat the tale, High-towering in your sombre case, Designed by Chippendale; Without regret for what is gone, You bid old customs change, As year by year you travel on To scenes and voices strange. We might have mingled with the crowd Of courtiers in this hall, The fans that swayed, the wigs that bowed, But you have spoiled it all; We might have lingered in the train Of nymphs that Reynolds drew, Or stared spell-bound in Drury Lane At Garrickbut for you. We might in Leicester Fields have swelled The throng of beaux and cits, Or listened to the concourse held Among the Kitcat wits; Have strolled with Selwyn in Pall Mall, Arrayed in gorgeous silks, Or in Great George Street raised a yell For Liberty and Wilkes. This is the life which you have known, Which you have ticked away, In one unmoved unfaltering tone That ceased not day by day, While ever round your dial moved Your hands from span to span, Through drowsy hours and hours that proved Big with the fate of man. A steady tick for fatal creeds, For youth on folly bent, A steady tick for worthy deeds, And moments wisely spent; No warning note of emphasis, No whisper of advice, No ruined rake or flippant miss, For coquetry or dice. You might, I think, have hammered out With meaning doubly clear, The midnight of a Vauxhall rout In Evelina's ear; Or when the night was almost gone, You might, the deals between, Have startled those who looked upon The cloth when it was green. But no, in all the vanished years Down which your wheels have run, Your message borne to heedless ears Is one and only one No wit of men, no power of kings, Can stem the overthrow Wrought by this pendulum that swings Sedately to and fro. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEVEN EYES: FINAL SECTION by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: COME OCTOBER by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: HOME by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN SLOWLY: I FREQUENTLY SLOWLY WISH by LYN HEJINIAN ALL THE DIFFICULT HOURS AND MINUTES by JANE HIRSHFIELD A DAY IS VAST by JANE HIRSHFIELD FROM THIS HEIGHT by TONY HOAGLAND |
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