, 1883-12-29
The Closing Year.

,Tis midnlght's holy hour, and silence now
Is brOoding like a gentle spirit O'eT
The still and pulseless world. Hark onlthe
The beiIS deep tones are sweiling-'tis the
or the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moOnbeams rest
Like a pale, spOtless shrOud ; the air is stirr'd
As by mourners sigh and on yon cloud
That floats so still and placidly through
The spirits Of the seasons seem to stand,-
Young Spring, bright summer, Autumn's
And Winter withdts aged Iocks,-and breathe,
In mournful cadences that come abroad
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching
A melancholy dlrge DER the dead year,
Gone from the Earth for ever
'Tis time
For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
still chambers OF the heart, n spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice OF Time
Heard from the tomb Of ages, points It's cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And-holy visions that have Puss'd away,
Gu uls elral v fsle ef iiff- Thaf 49, - s
The comm lid Of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending mournfully above the pale,
sweet forms that slumbe- there scatters dead
Ger what has passd to nothingness.
The year
Has gone, and with 1t many glorious throng
OF happy dreams Its mark Is on each brow,
It's shadow in each heart In its swift course
II waved Its Sceptrc DER tho beautiful
And they are not. IL laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man,-and the naughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye Is dim.
u trOd the hall Of rcvclry, where thrOng'd
The bright and Joyous,-and the fearful wall
OF stricken ones Is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout rcsounded.
II paSs'd DER
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and
Flash'd in The light Of mid-day,-ond the
Ofserrled hosts is shivcr'd, and the grass,
Green from the soil Of carnage, waves above
The crushd and mouldering skeleton. II
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;
Yet, ere It melted IN the yiewless air,
II hemldcd its millions to their home
In the dim land Ofdrcams.
RcmorscleSs Time
power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart TO pity? on, still on,
He presses, and for ever The proud bird,
The condor Of the Andes, that can soar
Through heavens unfathOmnble depths, or
The fury Of the northern hurricane,
And bathc his plumage In the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks
To rest upon his mountaIn-cng,-but Time
Knows not the weight Of sleep or wcaTincss,
And highs deep darkness has no chain To
bind
His rushing plnions.
Revolutions sweep
O'er earth, like troubled visions Ger the breast
OF dreaming sorrow,-cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the watcT,-hHry Isles
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious cHvcrns, mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs,
and bow
Their tall heads to the plaln,-new empires
rise,
Gathering the strength of hOary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nnttOns,-and the very stars,
NOn bright and burning blaZonry Of God,
Glitter while in their eternal depths,
And, like the Pleiad, lovellest Of their train,
shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass
away
To darkle In the trRcklcss vOld,-yet Time,
Time, the tom b-buildcr, holds his hrrcc career,
Dark, stern, nll-pitllCss, and pauscS not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path
To sit and muse, like other conqucrOrs,
Upon the fearful ruin he has Wrought
lGeorge d. Prentice.