Читать книгу Chats on Old Clocks - Arthur Hayden - Страница 3

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Time, you laggard, take my little book,

And point to those who have a curious mind

That record herein they may hidden find

Of Huygens' wordy war with Dr. Hooke:

Of David Ramsay's search for secret hoard:

Of Thomas Chamberlaine de Chelmisforde.

Many a maker left his graven name,—

That by your leave stands yet on dial plate,—

With legend Fecit, of uncertain date,

Proud with the hope that time would bring him fame.

Death stopped the wheels of maker and machine:

Time! will you not their memory keep green?

Time, take my tribute to your flying feet;

Paper will shortly crumble into dust.

You guard the guerdon free from moth and rust,

Your even finger sifts the chaff from wheat;

Hold me from hurt, I worship at your shrine

With every pulse-beat,—Father, make me thine.

A.H.