The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1897-01-05
FLY. ENVIOUS TIME.
THUS SANG MILTON OF THE DE-
PARTING YEAR.

EN*fhh'FO GHiff
Man and His Marvels Pass Away, but
TireIess Time Rolls On-The Death of
the Year Brings Feeling of Sadness.
A New Face at the Door.
Even now the gray dawn of the new
year is peeping over the horizon. We
can almost hear the bells tolling the
midnight mass for the dying year:
Yes, the year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared.
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plueks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorelyi
Let rs affect gay spirit, if we will.
There is an understandable, unnamable
sadness that comes over us all at this
dying of the old year. There is a feeling
of unspeakable dread, a sense of utter
loneliness, that takes possession of our
souls as the taper of the old year burns
low. If man ever feels the chill of the
supernatural, it is at this time. One
hears strange sounds and sees uncanny
visions:
Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll.
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, ''Pray for this poor soul.
Pray, prayl''
So Longfellow dwelt mournfully on
the passing of the old year, and in like
manner did Tennyson bemoan its de-
mise:
Full knee deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are YEARLY signing.
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year, you must not die.
You came to us SO readily,
You lived with us so steadily
Old year, you shall not die.
Step gently. Death is almost here:
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack, our friend is gonel
Close up his eyes, tie up his chin,
Step from the corpse and let him in
That standeth there alone
And waiteth at the door.
There's new foot on the floor, my friend,
And new face at the door, my friend
A new face at the doorl
And thus the old year dies and the
new year reigns:
Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven.
The New Years day is breaking:
The wave is breaking on the shore,
The echo fading from the chime.
Again the shadow moveth Ger
The dial plate of time.
And time speeds on-that ever chang
ing, tireless, crunching time; that time
of which Milton sang in voice that is
now hushed by time:
Fly, envious time, till thou run out thy racei
Call on the lazy leaden stepping hours
Whose speed is but the heavy plummets pace
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain
And merely mortal dross,
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain;
For, when as each thing bad thou hast entomb-
ed,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss,
And joy shall overtake us as flood,
When everything that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth and peace and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
OF him TO whose happy making sight alone
When once our heavenly guided soul shall
climb.
Then all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall forever sit,
Triumphing over death and chance and thee,
o Tinel
And SO time goes on and has gone on
for ages upon ages. Time chants:
Before my breath. like blazing fax,
Man and his marvels pass away
And changing empires wane and wax
Are founded, flourish and decay.
Time has
SIS seen some strange mutations;
The Roman empire has begun and ended
New worlds have risen-we have lost old ma
tions,
And countless kings have into dust been
humbled.
But no matter how we bid the parting
year farewell, or how we shall hail the
new-no matter how we measure it
time keeps slowly but surely ticking
away.
Time, like brilliant steed with seven rays
And with thousand eyes, imperishable,
Full Of fecundity, bears all things onward.
On him ascend the learned and the wise.
Time. like a seven wheeled, seven naved car,
moves on.
His rolling wheels are all the worlds, his axle
Is immortality.
Each new year brings us nearer the
earthly end, nearer the call of the faith
full Bellman, who sings:
Along the dark and silent night,
With my lantern and my light
And the twinkling of my bell,
Thus walk, and this tell:
Death and dreadfulness call on
To the general session.
To whose dismal bar we there
All accounts must come to clear.
Scores of sins we've made here, many,
Wiped out few, God knows if any.
Rise, ye debtors then, and fall
To make payments, while call.
Ponder this, when am gone
By the clock tbs almost one.
Chicago Record.