YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! MIDNIGHT MASS. Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy his last! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,— Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, Then, too, the Old Year dieth, "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, Kyrie, eleyson ! Christe, eleyson ! [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion; "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] |