Somewhat back from the village street,
Stands the old-fashioned country seat;
Across its antique portico
Tall lindens and walnut trees grow.
Within, in the quaint old hall,
There hangs on the wall a clock,
Which points with a warning finger still,
To the law that governs human will.
Its pendulum swings with steady beat,
Marking the hours with measured feet,
And ever, in the silent room,
It chimes the tale of life and gloom.