Weekly Trinity journal., 1861-12-28
THE CLOSING YEAR.
GEORGE d. PRENTICE.

lis mldnlgnJS molly n0ur-and silence now
Is brOoding, like gentle spirit, DER
The still and pulseless world. lIark on the winds
The bells deep tones are swelling tits the knell
OF the departed year. No funeral train
| Is sweeping past yet. on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest,
Like pale spotless shroud the air is strr'd,
AS by mourners sigh : and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
! The spirits OF the seasons seem to stand, form,
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn
And Winter with bis aged locks, and breathe
In mournful cadences, that come abroad
Like the far wind harp's wild and touching vail,
A melancholy dirge DER the dead year,
Gone from the earth forever. IT'S time
For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passd away
And left no shadow of their ovelness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The cofin-lid of hope, and joy, aud love,
And, bending mOurnfully above the pale Ters
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flow
Der what has pass'd to nothingness, The year
Has gone, and, with it. many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
It's shadow on each heart. In its swift course,
1t waved it's sceptre DER the beautiful,
And they are not 1t laid its pallid hand
upon the strong man, anu lne naughty lOfm
Is fallen, and the flashing eye Is dim.
1t trod the hall Of revelry, where throng'd
The bright and joyous, and the fearful vail
OF stricken ones is heard, where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded. 1t passd DER
The battle plain, where sword and spear and shield
Flash d in The light of mid day-and the strength
OF serred hosts is shiver'd d, and the grass,
Green from the soil Of carnage, waves above
The crush'd and moudering skeleton. 1t came
A nd faded Ike n wreath of mist Mt eve:
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,
1t heralded its millions to their home
In the dim land of dreams. Remorseess Time
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe-what power
Can stay him in his silent course. or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on
He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes that can soar
Through heavens unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury Of the northern hurricane,
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furs his broad wings at nightlall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag,-but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or WEAKNESS,
And nights deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion. Revoluto sweep
O'er earth, like troubled visions DER the breast
OF dreaming sorrow ; cities rise and sink,
Like bubbles on the water fiery isles
Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious Caverns mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackend cliffs, and bow
lutlI ldll Hcuuo w tuc pl"ill hS" CulpliCo ilHCj
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry OF COP,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,
And, like the Plciad loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away,
To darkle in the trackless void yet Time
Time, the tomb builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all pitiess, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that srew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.