Time, you laggard, take my little book,

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,—

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;

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.