Classic Poem

He sate, no stiller stands a rock,
And gazed upon an ancient clock;
He heard its steady even tone,
He watched its finger moving on,
From one to five, from five to ten,
So through its hourly course again.
Thus sate he through the livelong day,
And as the minutes sped away,
So seemed it to the wretch, he felt
The life that in his members dwelt
(Like waxen image set of old
By magic fire with rites untold)
Minute by minute, hour by hour,
Waste and still waste its vital power,
And melt perceptibly away.
Thus sate he through the livelong day,
Powerless alike for good or ill,
Bound hand and foot, a captive still;
Wretched and conscious of his lot,
And longed to rise and yet did not.
Oh, what a lesson was there told
In that wise saw that said of old,
‘One half they will thou sure wilt win
So soon as e'er thou darest begin!’